


Clinging to the wild things that raised us

by TheSweetestThing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 34
Words: 128,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4305402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the Martells demanded the traitor Sansa Stark’s hand in marriage in return for peace throughout the Seven Kingdoms, then so be it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song Compass by Zella Day.

She should count herself lucky.

It is a match higher than anyone ever dreamed, her maids tell her as they fix her hair for arrival, the whole Keep thought you would die a maid. Sansa knows they are Lannister women, _Myrcella's_ women, that would rather be attending to their Princess then the second best Stark girl. They tell her Sansa will find herself with a child within the year, that Prince Oberyn has numerous lovers, men and women both, and a paramour that’s borne him four daughters.

“He’ll take no liberties.” They chatter as they pour water for her to wash with, and Sansa shivers despite the muggy warmth of the cabin. “I heard he bedded his paramour and his squire at once as well as a few whores.”

“Well what else do you expect from a Dornishman?” Another says scornfully. “You shan’t enjoy it, but at least your children will be legitimate.”

“Although you better watch out for that paramour.” The third whispers confidentially, tugging at a stray curl of hair.

What better way to show your loyalty to the throne then reluctantly marry the disgraced daughter of a traitor? Sansa has heard all about the letter from the Prince that had mentioned relieving the Royal family of a burden.

Joffrey had taken great delight in regaling her it whilst she quivered on the cold marble floor, a chill taking hold of her as he sat before her high on his throne, sharp voice echoing around the cavernous Throne room.

“It says you are a burden.” He had said with delight, emerald eyes glowing. “Prince Doran writes ‘ _Let Dorne continue to show you our friendship to the Iron Throne by relieving you of a, by all reports, most tiresome burden_.” He laughed, and the echoing response of the Kingsguard rang in Sansa’s ears and left her dizzy, cold leaking into her skin where she slumped on her knees before them.

“ _My brother is as yet unmarried, and although he is old he is most virile._ ’ You know what that means?” His childish voice bubbling with glee. “He’ll take you every night like a common whore.” His legs kicked out against the iron base of the throne. “Ser Blount, hit the Dornish whore.”

How Sansa had cried out as Ser Boros’s mailed fist swung into the flesh of her stomach...

“ _Let our loyalty to the Iron throne continue with this marriage and the betrothal of Myrcella and my son Trystane."_ He had continued above Sansa's helpless cries. "I’m glad you’re getting married to an old Dornish man.” Prince Joffrey told her, fat lips turned up into a smug smile. “My Mother was angry when the letter came, but the Imp said it was a good idea. When he’s dead you’ll be tainted and nobody else will want you, not even the smallfolk, especially not any Lord.”

“It sounds like the Prince himself doesn’t want her Your Grace.” Sandor Clegane had rasped, staring down at her. Was that sympathy in his shadowed gaze?

“You’re right!” Joffrey laughed. “This is a cause for celebration! Kiss her Dog!”

Sandor Clegane’s lips brushed her cheek, so gentle. 

“My Mother says you’ll probably die in childbirth within the year anyway.” Joffrey had shrugged. “And when my grandfather beats your brother in battle the whole North will be mine.”

He was wrong; Robb would defeat him, defeat all of them. Everyone knew Robb was winning every battle he engaged Lord Tywin in, and it pleased Sansa that at least one part of Joffrey's dreams would not come true anytime soon. As for the first part...

Sansa's stomach roils, and she swallows thickly. She has had the most terrible seasickness the whole journey, and with Dorne on the golden horizon she needs must get dressed however much her stomach disagreed. The voyage had been fair for the most part, and Sansa doesn't know if it's the impending marriage or the sea that makes her so sick to her stomach. 

She nibbles on a salt cracker a maid hands her before she washes her face over the small basin. The cabin was small, not befitting Sansa's rank as a future Princess (was she a Princess already, with Robb declared a King?) of Dorne. Sparsely decorated, with a bed that did little to comfort Sansa in her distress. A small table to one side accompanied by a chair for use at meal times, a chamberpot on the other side of the cabin, and the door on the fourth wooden wall. Barely more then a servants quarters truly, but Sansa had no use for fine Myrish tapestries and thick leather trunks that opened up spilling clothes as she was arriving in Dorne with only four dresses,  _old_ dresses that showed off her ankles and were tatty around the hem. Most unseemly, but the Lannister's didn't care about that. All they cared about was getting rid of her as quickly as possible, in the opposite direction to North.

Sansa thinks that surely Dorne cannot be worse then Kings Landing, but with all the gossip on her maids lips Sansa finds herself steadily growing more and more disillusioned - if that were even possible. She did not want to marry a Prince, did not want to marry anyone at all. She did not want to go South, she wanted to go home. She wanted the simple world she had lived in a year ago, a world in which her Father lived and her family were all together in Winterfell. But she could never go back to the past only forward, and hope that what lay before her was better than she expected.

The maids retreat to the back of the room, muttering and casting their gaze over to her when they think she cannot see. Sansa turns her back on them, taking her time to dry every water drop off her body, and if the wetness on her face could be construed as tears they do not see.

They lace her into her oldest dress, a dress that is too tight around Sansa’s stomach and pushes her breasts together creating emphasis where there is none. It makes Sansa’s cheeks hot, the way her maids stare at her critically and tug the hemline of her collar down further, the way they fuss over her corset and adjust her skirts just so, to disguise her pale ankles sticking out at the bottom. They clasp her travelling cloak around her shoulders, sweep her damp red curls into a loose plait and push her forward to the door.

“You’ll get new clothes in Sunspear.” One maid tells her in farewell, and Sansa bids them goodbye without looking back. She would not miss the Lannister spies that made no move to comfort her when she was distressed, that would report any and all her doings to the Queen. They can serve Princess Myrcella gladly.

No Kingsguard is waiting outside her room to escort her, and instead she walks up the narrow stairs quite alone, swaying in unison with the boat that rocks on the waves. She fights the vomit back, banging her shin on the step as she rises above deck. The light is blinding, the heat instantly sweltering, and she swallows thickly and inches forward feeling incredibly scruffy compared to Princess Myrcella who is splaying her hands on the side of  _Seaswift_ gazing out at the glittering shore. Her cousin Rosamund stands to one side of her cooing loudly at animals beneath the azure waves. 

"Lady Sansa." Ser Arys greets her, his white uniform dazzling as he stands by his charge, one hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword. She could not help but remember when that hand had drived into the soft flesh of her belly. Ser Arys was only doing what the King commanded him, she reminds herself. He tried to refuse but would have been punished himself if he had not obeyed, and he was much gentler then the others, his blows never bruised. Sansa would rather herself be beaten softly by him then have Arys stripped of his position and reputation because of her.

“Do you think you shall enjoy Dorne Ser Arys?” Sansa converses quietly.

“My duty is not to enjoy Dorne but to protect Princess Myrcella.” He tells her, and is there a flicker of guilt in those brown eyes that look her way?

“I shall have Prince Oberyn to protect me.” Sansa assures him, for surely a man nicknamed the Red Viper will protect what is his, regardless of his personal feelings. The fearsome warrior will not permit others to harm what was his, surely. 

"Sansa come look at the dolphins." Myrcella smiles and Rosamund squeals, clutching her arm as the animals surface again and leap in the air. They're strange creatures, smooth and shiny and the three quickly lean back to avoid the spray when water erupts from the hole on the top of their grey heads. Their clicking sounds like laughter and Rosamund and Myrcella giggle. Even Sansa's lips twitch upwards for a second. 

"Girls." Myrcella's Septa, Septa Eglantine makes her way over to them. "We shall be arriving shortly." She pats Myrcella's windswept curls down. "You are a Princess of the Iron Throne and must conduct yourself appropriately to your rank while in Dorne. Expectations are very high, all eyes are on you to make this match frutiful for Westeros. Your betrothed must needs find you compelling, yes?" She straightens the collar of Myrcella's pretty golden dress with the black stitching. "Not that that will be hard." She finishes with a loving smile and Myrcella clasps her hands.

"I shall do my duty." Myrcella says solemnly, emerald eyes staring into her Septa's. 

She is so strong, Sansa does not doubt her word. Myrcella has not cried once during the whole trip, not even when the ship pulled out of the docks of Kings Landing and she waved goodbye to her family. Sansa has cried every night, shivering alone in her threadbare bed, the wooden slates poking her back whilst her head conjured up images of meaty hands and cruel sneers on the face of her husband, worse then Joffrey, shoving her nightgown up and taking her without care or concern. 

"And you," Septa Eglantine moves her attention to Rosamund. "Are to cater to every need of your cousin and not bring any shame to the Lannister name."

"I would never." Rosamund says demurely, her pale cheeks flushing.

"These Dornish are not like our soldiers and knights." Septa Eglantine warns. "They are carnal folk, and hot-headed. They may not heed advice you give them, but you will stay calm and collected in their presence and not forget yourself however they tempt you. They will say doubtless many things, but if you lose your maidenhood you shall be _ruined._ "

Myrcella and Rosamund are scarlet as they nod. Septa Eglantine says nothing to Sansa but sweeps a critical eye over her, and Sansa stares her back defiantly. She may look a mess; her revealing dress already fitting more to Dornish standard she is sure, and her skin is clammy and sallow from the seasickness and her hair windswept and damp with sweat, but her poor appearance is not by choice and Sansa wishes desperately she could make a better first impression. Embrassing, humiliating, but of course the Lannisters cared naught for her feelings and entirely on the family they sold her to. 

"Now smile girls, likely the onlookers on the shore will be able to see us soon."

* * *

Her slippers are threadbare at the bottom, and she can feel the wood rough beneath her, splinters poking the soft cushion soles of her feet as she crosses the plank onto blessedly still ground. She still finds herself rocking dizzingly as she comes to a stand still beside Princess Myrcella, who is stood placidly with Septa Eglantine, Rosamund and Ser Arys. Dornish men of Prince Doran's household leap up onto the ship's deck to take their trunks and belongings, and Sansa feels shunted to the side, alone and forgotten in a sea of people bustling past shouting and cheering and cracking jokes.

A short girl at the front of the crowd strides forward to greet them, dark curls bouncing around her bare shoulders and spilling down her back. Her dress is a loose thing, frothy scarlet and swishing around her nut brown legs as she comes to a stop before the pair, a pleasant smile on her lips.

"Princess Myrcella, and you must be Princess Sansa. I am Princess Arianne Martell, the heir to Dorne."

Myrcella and Sansa sink into curtsies. Sansa's corset digs into her side and she lets out a painful wheeze she prays escaped Princess Arianne's notice, cautiously straightening up hoping the seams of her dress don't burst. 

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Princess Arianne says warmly. "And there’s no need for such courtesies before long I hope. We’re all to become such good friends.”

She beckons a group of knights with the shield and spear of House Martell emblazoned on their surcoats forward with the crook of a finger.

“Help our guests unload.” She looks them over, staring at Sansa for a second longer then the others. “You shall need new dresses I think. The best Dornish garb for our new Princesses.”

"Thank you Princess Arianne." Myrcella says wide-eyed, and Sansa nods quickly.

"You spoil us." She murmurs under her breath, but to her horror Arianne hears and turns to her. Her dark eyes glitter, her face searching hers. 

 "I hardly think buying appropriate attire constitutes as spoiling someone." She finally says calmly, before spinning with a deft smile and motioning them to follow her. 

"Let me lead you to my brother. Trystane is eager to meet you Myrcella, he has been counting down the days to your arrival."

"I cannot wait to meet him either." Myrcella says politely.

The group from Kings Landing stare around them avidly as they walk, and Sansa can glimpse houses made of _mud_ packed together in long rows, tiny alleys sprouting from gaps between them to peter off into the distance. When Sansa looks above the houses she can see the huge dome of the Martell ancestral home, the Sandship shaped like a true ship if you squint, and the tip of the Spear Tower shimmers in and out of existance in the blanket of dust surrounding the hot city. Already Sansa's lungs are tight, sweat dripping down her neck and staining the underarms of her dress, and she would be embarrassed if Ser Arys was not obviously in even worse wear, cheeks pink and wet, the heavy white cloak of the Kingsguard stained with sweaty fingerprints.

Myrcella is like a girl from a fairytale when she meets Trystane, peach skin glowing even more beautifully in the sun, her eyes lighting up showing swirls and whorls of different shades of green.  Prince Trystane is Sansa's age, with cheeks that glow red when Myrcella shyly introduces herself. He is taller than Myrcella, with straight ink black hair that gleams in the sun. A mismatched pair, complete opposites truly. 

Sansa is watching the pair tentatively start a conversation when Arianne tucks her arm adorned with jewels of every colour through hers.

“Sansa you shall walk with me.” Princess Arianne decides. “Let my brother get to know his betrothed.”

Sansa nods. “I am honoured Princess Arianne.”

“Call me Arianne please.” She smiles, tucking her arm through Sansa’s. She was not much taller then Sansa, and her dark locks brush Sansa’s arm as they swan past soldiers loading their trunks onto carts and carriages.  Rings glisten on her fingers, the bronze buckles on her snakeskin sandals winking as they catch the sun on the way to her knee.

"Are you well?" She inquires. 

"The seasickness took me." Sansa says. "I beg your pardon Princess Arianne, I disgrace myself." 

"Nothing a cold bath and new clothes cannot fix." She runs a hand through Sansa's dry hair, nails sifting through the dark red strands. "A few maids to tend to your needs." 

"You are too kind." 

"It is merely my duty to make sure you are well." Arianne shrugs. 

They stand side by side watching the dusty streets of Sunspear, the sun baked stones cracked in the blazing heat that lead from the docks through the city. Bronze and brown people of all ages walk around chattering, calling out and fake-sparring, laughing merrily.   

"Beautiful is it not?" Arianne sighs lovingly. "My home." 

Sansa's home now, too.

* * *

The ride up to the Sand Ship is slow, with Dornish almost swamping the carriage that takes them, shouting their joy to the new Princesses. Sansa peeks out of the silk curtains at the city, the stalls and markets set up offering precious shade under their blanketed canopies, smoke spiralling from braziers cooking seafood dishes in large pans. Animals slump in wooden cages, trinkets made from seashells hanging down blowing in the breeze and emitting tiny silvery sounds, and that's when Sansa sees the silk headdresses and cloaks draped over wooden desks. She spies a whole vendor selling nothing but lemon cakes, and Sansa's mouth waters, for the first time in a long while the stirrings of hunger happening deep in her belly.  A while after that she lets the silks fall back for the sun shone in her eyes painfully, and a little longer after that she hears the rumble of a portcullis behind them and the carriage comes to a stop. 

A Dornish man helps her down and out of the carriage, and she stands in the courtyard motionless while Myrcella and her retinue make way to join her. Then there are the introductions to all the household gathered to greet them, and Sansa hears makes a concentrated effort to remember everyone's name the first time she hears them for her courtsies will be perfect if nothing else. 

"And these are mine own cousins, Lady Obara Sand, the Lady Nymeria, and the Lady Tyene." Arianne introduces, and Sansa's mouth goes dry because these are Arianne's  _cousins,_ and Prince Oberyn has many bastard daughters, and she is to be their step-Mother when the eldest looks to be near thirty, over double her age and a woman in her own right with no need of a Mother.

"Oh but your hair is so  _lovely._ " The one Arianne introduced as Tyene, the one with lily white skin and long blonde hair moves into her before anyone can speak, embracing her softly. The only way Sansa can describe her of smelling is pure, and she smiles so innocently at her, so beautifully, her blue eyes sparkling. 

"There are not many redheads here in Dorne, Princess Sansa. Not many blondes either, but I see we have more of those now." She withdraws and turns her dimpled smile to Myrcella and Rosamund. "It is a pleasure to meet you too Princess Myrcella."  

Myrcella smiles in return, for Tyene's sweet smile was contagious. 

"Sansa let me introduce you to my sisters... this here is the lovely Obara."

Sansa believes Obara to be anything but lovely, for the homely woman appears to be scowling at her. Sansa smiles graciously anyway, and Obara merely offers a terse welcome before folding her arms over her chest and staring away into the distance, her close set brown eyes leagues away.  

Lady Nymeria relieves the awkwardness by sweeping into a curtsey, and the Lady Nym is all sophistication, and Sansa can immediately tell, by the way she holds herself, the way she knows the exact words of welcome, the aristocratic long nose and high cheekbones that could cut glass that this girl was of a noble family, if not just the Martell's.

"I hope we shall become good friends." Sansa is sincere in her words, for she could not bear it if everyone in Dorne hated her, her husband to be and his family most especially. 

"You're our new Mother." Tyene says, and Nymeria laughs. "How can we not love you?" 

* * *

She awaits for her betrothed's arrival, but his daughters say naught and Sansa dare not bring it up herself. Arianne leads them into a grand tour of the castle, and by the time her one trunk has been brought to the bedchamber Arianne decreed was hers, Sansa barely has enough energy to change into her nightgown she is so tired, so beside herself with anticipation. A knock at the door serves to take her breath away, but when Sansa plucks up the courage to tiptoe over and answer it is only a maid to serve her supper and help her to bed. 

"The Princess Arianne said I am to be your maid for tonight." The girl says. "My name is Cedra, it's a pleasure to serve you Princess." 

She curtseys, but Sansa waves her up awkwardly. The girl is her own age, pretty too, and she sets about tidying Sansa's scant dresses away while Sansa watches her.

The day has been so long she almost falls asleep in the tub of hot water Cedra brings her to bathe in.

She leans back, her neck lolling against the rim of the iron tub, and steam wafts thick from the water she scrubs her body clean with. Her skin an angry red, and shet examines her quarters lazily. Her chambers are richely decorated, with patterned walls and mosaics she can follow with her fingertips, flickering candles and jewels adorning every surface. The wood of her four poster bed is dark, the dresser and door the same, and on one end there are double doors that lead out to a small balcony. The silk curtains drift hazily back and forth in the light night breeze and when Sansa's eyes start to slip she gets out. 

After, when Cedra is softly untangling the knots in her hair with a brush Sansa dares asks the question on her lips, folding and twisting her hands into her silk nightgown nervously.

"Where is the Prince Oberyn?"

"He was visiting his brother Prince Doran in the Water Gardens." Cedra says quietly. "But they will both be back for your welcoming feast tomorrow, Princess Arianne says. He thought you would have enough to deal with on your arrival."

"Oh." Sansa says surprised. "That is... kind of him."

"He is a good man." Cedra says loyally, little face pulled together. "You shall like him, I think." Her lips curl into a cute smile. "Everyone in Dorne likes him."  

Sansa hopes desperately she likes him and he likes her, or this marriage may be the worst thing in the world.  


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa is awoken early the next morning by a knock on her door, and she is so deep in dreams, so long it has been since she last had proper sleep on fat goose feathered pillows and plump matresses that it takes another two raps at her door for her to notice, her dreams snatched away and falling from the edges of her mind. 

"Who goes there?" She asks thickly, wiping drool discreetly from her chin despite the absence of anyone in her chamber with her, rolling lazily across the huge bed. She could loll in here forever, she thinks languidly, for the bed was swelteringly hot with the covers on, but kicked off in the night as hers were, crumpled at the bottom with a cushion fallen on the marble floors below, it was perfect. Soft golden sun streams through the balcony left open for the hot summer night, the white marble floors gleaming and reflecting the sliver of blue sky that can be glimsped through the gap in her silk curtains. 

"It is the Princess Arianne."

Sansa shoots out of that most comfortable bed as fast as her deadened legs can carry her, and she staggers across the room and almost falls headfirst into the door in her haste to open it.

"I apologise I am not dressed." She begins, gasping from the improperity of it all, but Princess Arianne only shrugs and walks past her into her room followed by several women carrying sewing kits and bits of cloth, huge swathes of fabrics.

"Princess Arianne," She says warily, tucking a limp strand of hair behind her ear. "What..."

"I said you needed proper attire did I not?" Arianne smiles, and at a flick of her wrist the women are moving forward to take her measurements, all while she stands in her sweaty nightgown with her hair untamed and her skin wet from the humid and sticky night. "And you shall have some for the feast tonight. Which do you favour? I recommend the silks, any heavier than velvet is too hot for this weather as you will soon learn."

"The silks are lovely." Sansa admits. "But I cannot have any of this, it is simply too much."

"Princess Sansa." Arianne takes her hands gently; her hands are long and smooth and olive and cold with rings on nearly every finger, a complete contrast to Sansa's. "If you wear any of your old dresses you have arrived with, those from Kings Landing and the thick Northern ones you shall faint right away in front of everyone before the feast has even begun. The Dornish heat is as fierce as its people, and you need new dresses. You are family now, and family at the very least buy each other new dresses."

And how can Sansa say no? Refusing a Princess after she had made her intention clear was rude.

"Alright." She says weakly, and then Sansa is holding her arms out above her head getting measured and picking which silk goes best with her hair while a woman judges her foot size for new slippers and boots.

Cedra arrives with her breakfast and Arianne's in the midst of it all, and Arianne and Sansa employ her advice in selecting which silk in between eggs laced with Dornish peppers that make Sansa's tongue hot, and cool lemon water to ease the spice that she eagerly sucks down, eyes watering. Cedra fancies the pale pink silks with the dark purple edging, and when Arianne decides she too may have a new dress if she liked it so Cedra's face lights up and she scurries across the room to hug her Princess. Everyone in Dorne, highborn and low love their Princess, their Martell's it is clear. Sansa dearly hopes she will not be a disappointment to them like she has to so many others. 

"Well what takes your fancy Sansa?" Arianne asks from where she reclines on the velvet chaise lounge at the foot of Sansa's bed, plucking a grape from the breakfast plates to roll between her fingers and pop in her mouth.   

"I cannot decide." Sansa's mouth twists with disappointment, for she loves the light brown silk with the jewels that twinkled every colour on the seams, and she loves the white silk with the lace edging too.

"Why not have both?" Arianne nods towards the seamstresses. 

"Both?" Sansa echoes. 

"Do I need to tell you again Sansa?" Arianne's eyes twinkle as Sansa shakes her head vehemently, determined not to anger the beautiful Dornish Princess.

"I only want to say thank you." She finally says, and she looks down at her twisting hands fumbling nervously. She swallows thickly. "I cannot remember the last time someone bought me a gift."

Her Father most probably, and Sansa's heart squeezes in pain when she recalls his kind face and loving words and Ser Ilyn had thrown him down on the steps and his knees had  _jerked_ when-

"Well consider it a welcome gift." Arianne crosses the room to press a kiss on her cheek. "A welcome to the family gift, in fact. Now I shall leave you to finally get dressed, and go get Princess Myrcella's measurements."

"You shouldn't have come to me first." Sansa cannot resist saying. "Princess Myrcella is a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms."

"And she has plenty of dresses already. I daresay she could wait an hour or two, lovely as she is."

Arianne disappears as abruptly as she arrived, and her entourage follow, and Sansa is left alone in her nightgown bemused at the events that just transpired. She's getting dresses, new dresses, dresses that fit her and leave no unseemly pieces of skin showing, dresses that won't leave her sweating and faint.

She hugs herself happily, forgetting for a minute all the fears in her world, for she had  _new dresses._

* * *

She spends the first half of the day after bathing and getting dressed exploring every nook and cranny of her chambers in the daylight, the private privy and the bookcases filled with scrolls, and she drags her fingers along the spines of the tomes and knows she'll enjoy reading the stories within by candlelight. She admires the cool marble floors and soft Myrish carpets beneath her feet, scrunching her toes into the soft material, gazing at the tapestries and art hung on the walls before her depicting scenes from Dornish history - she was sure that one of the warrior woman was Nymeria, the soft orange blots in the background her burning ships. There are a few Westrosi ones too, Florian and Jonquil she instantly recognises and sours at. True love isn't like the fairytales, in fact Sansa isn't entirely sure true love exists at all. Mother had only come to love Father after being married to him for years and bearing his children, and Sansa is sure her husband shall not love her at all when his paramour sates and amuses him, wiles his days away. The thought of her impending marriage when she managed to forget for a while sickens her, and she tastes the spicy eggs she ate that morning sharp in the back of her throat. 

It is near midday when Sansa dares venture from her room to the corridors outside. She takes her time to examine the portaits of Dornish Princes and Princesses, Deria and Meria and Maron and more besides, all with olive skin and curly black locks, passion deep in their dark eyes. Sansa is well read on the stories of Dorne and the many adventures the Nymeros Martell's got theirselves into. Baelor the Blessed had walked across the sands of Dorne barefoot and no snake had dared strike him, and everyone in Westeros knew of the Martells remaining Unbowed Unbent Unbroken when faced with Rhaenys Targaryen, and had only been brought to peace when Mariah Martell wed King Daeron II. These Martells are used to marrying to royalty, or at least someone with high status, and Sansa's stomach clenches painfully because everyone believed she was the daughter of a traitor, and she  _was,_ and Robb waged war on the Lannister's and had not one thought of the pains of his sister down in Kings Landings or Dorne. She wonders if Mother will write at least, now they know where she is and who she is betrothed to, and mayhaps the Martells will not burn the letters they write like she suspected the Lannisters did.

"Lady Sansa."

Sansa automatically tugs at the skirts of her too-short dress, thanking the gods and Arianne both that she were to have new dresses before the day was out. Sansa remembers this woman, for she is the Lord Treasurer of Sunspear and her face is as bright as her name suggests.

"Lady Alyse." Sansa says, and the woman smiles gracefully and curtsies. 

She stays, head bent low before Sansa hastily waves her up.

"You needn't curtsey for me." 

"But you are a Princess of the North and soon a Princess of Dorne too my lady." Lady Alyse says, green eyes glittering. "It's only proper." 

Sansa nods uncertainly and Lady Alyse continues on her way, clutching a thick book to her chest. It feels like a cruel jape when people call her Princess, for how can she be when only Robb and the North declare him King? To call herself a Princess would be to call herself a traitor to the Iron Throne, and how these Dornish call her it in the open without a care, as if they are glad of her brother going against the crown, makes her nerves shot and her head ache, and she plays with the end of her plait anxiously, tugging at the red curls. 

* * *

Sansa had not known it was possible, but somehow the day grows hotter as hours pass. Midday finds her stood in the courtyard she herself had arrived in the day before, her mouth dry and lips cracked. She licks them nervously, eyes flickering over to Myrcella who stands as beautiful as ever; her green hair ribbons matching her eyes. She converses with Prince Trystane at ease, little pink mouth twisted up into a smile. Ser Arys and Septa Eglantine stand either side of her, Rosamund corralled in front of Ser Arys, and Sansa cannot bring herself to care she stands quite alone at the side, for the thought of being stood near to other sweltering bodies in the heat makes her cringe. Princess Arianne and Tyene are laughing at a shared jape, Obara rolling her eyes, and Nymeria stands beside a pair of blonde twins and watches her curiously. 

Shouts ring before them, and the portcullis is hastily risen. Barely has it opened before a cloud of dust races beneath it, the stallion galloping towards them at full speed. Black, with a mane and tail the colour of Sansa's hair, and it snorts and tosses its head as the rider turns it around in a wide circle before them, slowing to a canter, a trot, a brisk walk. 

"Well met, Uncle. You might try jumping the gate next time." Princess Arianne says airily, walking forward to lightly embrace the rider, who thrusts one leg over the horse and dismounts, throwing the reins over the horses head. 

This man was her betrothed then, he who rode so recklessly and without fear, who has laughter in his tone as he replies to his niece with an answering jape. He walks forward with no hesitation, importance ringing in the soles of his knee high leather boots as they thud in the sand. Long fingers push back a strand of black hair threaded with silver as he walks towards them.

"Uncle, may I introduce you to Princess Myrcella Baratheon." Arianne says, and her betrothed smiles at Myrcella, murmurs a word of welcome Sansa strains to hear.

"And of course, your own betrothed Princess Sansa Stark. Sansa, this is my Uncle Prince Oberyn." 

And then his gaze is on hers, and her breath catches in her throat. 

"Not a Princess yet." Is all she can think to say, and the chuckle that rolls off Oberyn's thin lips makes her cheeks warm. 

"Not of Dorne, no." He agrees as she curtsies. She is hyper aware of his gaze on her, trailing over her body, and she looks under her eyelashes at a lined face with a long nose, hair that brushes the collar of his shirt, a widows peak he shares with Nymeria. 

"I have greatly looked forward to our meeting." 

A lie, a vicious lie that makes Sansas's stomach curdle as she straightens up. Her husband to be is tall and lean, but she can see the sinewy strength in the muscles of his arms, and Sansa recalls the Red Viper's reputation and for the first time is reassured her betrothed is a fighter, a warrior. Perhaps he could use some of that strength to protect her. 

"As have I."

His hand goes out to grab her and she flinches, swallowing thickly. She recovers and offers her hand daintily just as he turns to go. He hesitates for a long moment before slowly brushing his lips against her knuckles, and she cannot look away from the dark eyes staring at her even if she wanted to. He has dark onyx eyes, eyes Sansa cannot decipher, eyes Sansa can see her own reflection in and she is glad her face looks blank, unyielding under layers of cool courtsey. 

"Where is my Father?" Arianne asks. "Has he decided to forgo a chance to see his daughter in the flesh after all?" 

"The litter is slow, I am impatient. Ellaria and the girls follow with the rest." He tugs off the leather gloves he wears. "I shall go change I think." 

He heads past them, and Sansa turns her head slightly to watch him go. That was not how their first meeting was to go she was certain, even though she had not predicted what their first meeting would be like exactly. He is unpredictable always and in everything, she thinks, given from how he had arrived, and she has no clue as to whether that is good or bad. Joffrey was unpredictable in his mood swings, but it was certain always to end in Sansa being beaten.  

* * *

Prince Doran is the opposite to Prince Oberyn in all ways, Sansa decides. What was it Father used to say about her and Arya? As different as the sun and moon. Prince Doran is the ruling Prince of Dorne, but to Sansa he looks only like a frail man with a blanket over his knees. No shining sun at all, compared to the rumours of her betrothed. Mayhaps that is a good thing, Sansa thinks as she curtsies to Prince Doran, who clutches her fingers and squeezes, a soft smile gracing his face. Sansa cannot imagine this Prince harming anyone at all. 

"Princess Sansa." He says. 

"Prince Doran." Sansa smiles. "It is an honour to meet you at last."

"And you too child. You are most beautiful."

She stiffens, recalling the letter that mentioned how _virile_ Prince Oberyn was, how lacking he was in trueborn heirs, how she was a burden..

"You are too kind." She says distantly, only half listening as the Prince goes on to talk with his son and Myrcella, give thanks to Ser Arys and Septa Eglantine for looking over Myrcella and Sansa, and they do not tell him they care for her not at all.  

The Prince is protected by a burly guard with a huge and most fearsome longax, but it is not that Sansa stares curiously at. Prince Doran is being rolled around in a chair that has wheels. Bran could use that, she is sure. She can see in her mind so clearly an image of Bran rolling down the corridors of Winterfell, his wolf trotting by his side, his small face alight with happiness, and it has been so long since she's last seen him, pale and so thin, so terribly thin laid motionless in his bed... She sighs wistfully, attention so lax she is shocked when a girl her own age stalks right up to her and glares. 

"You aren't going to be our Lady Mother." She snipes. "We shan't listen to you."

"Elia!" A woman that could only be her Mother narrows her big dark eyes as she watches her child storm into the palace. 

"You needn't apologise." Sansa says automatically. And then: "She reminds me of my sister."

"You speak too kindly of her I fear." She sighs, although there is a Motherly love on her face that Sansa wishes she could see on her own Mother just once more. "She is her Father's daughter, through and through. It is lovely to meet you Lady Sansa. I have heard many tales of your beauty." 

Sansa nods cautiously.

"No doubt you have heard of me also, if not by name. I am Ellaria, Prince Oberyn's paramour."

Sansa schools her surprise into a calm expression.

"It is a pleasure." She manages. She doesn't know what else to say? She can keep Oberyn to herself, she is no threat? 

"I should hate to move away to a foreign land and marry a stranger." Ellaria looks at her sympathetically. "If there is aught I can do for you, feel free to ask anytime."

"Thank you." 

Ellaria smiles. "We shall get to know each other at the feast tonight." She promises, squeezing her forearm. "I have plenty of stories about Oberyn, the gods know." 

* * *

"It's _perfect._ " Sansa spins around in her new dress and cannot stop the giggle that falls from her lips at the sight of the loose white fabric, swishing around her ankles. Cool against her skin, and covering more than her old dresses, and she sighs happily. "I look perfect." 

"It brings out the colour of your hair." Cedra says, smiling as Sansa nods. "Prince Oberyn will be lost for words."

They share a giggle before Sansa even thinks about it, and when she realises she presses her lips together and pats the braids in her hair, careful not a hair was out of place. 

"I love the feasts." Cedra sighs. "The food is magnificent, and we get extra portions than usual." Her stomach rumbles as she applies perfume to Sansa's wrists and neck.

Perfume Sansa had picked, and the scent of lemon wafts around her as she slips her feet into her shoes. Silk slippers, with sparkling jewels that catch the light every time her feet twitch. She moves her foot left to right admiringly, stretching her leg out. She looks for the first time like a lady again, a respectable Lady, a  _Princess._ A different iteration of Sansa Stark, one that has a good chance of blossoming in Dorne. 

"You look beautiful." Cedra tells her, before a firm knock makes her flit to the door, and all of a sudden Sansa finds the brief light heartedness that filled her evaporating. Her heart thuds too quick, nails digging into the palms of her sweaty hands as she slowly moves to the door of her bedchambers where Prince Oberyn stands waiting to escort her.

He looks more handsome then when they first met earlier, his hair pulled back from his face and clean from dust, and he smiles at her when she bobs into a curtesy in greeting. It unnerves her, that smile.

"May I?" He asks, holding out a hand and she nods. He tucks her arm securely around his and they walk down the corridors to the grand hall. She is so tense beside him, waiting for him to ask her something unseemly or drag her away and have his way with her, or turn and beat her for not paying attention and daydreaming-

She swallows. 

"You look very handsome." She tells him sincerely. He's wearing a loose orange shirt and dark breeches, but the buckles on his boots are pure gold, and the red and orange stitching on his shirt flashes and catches the eye everytime he moves. Simple but displaying the wealth the Martell's had, his position as the ruling Prince's brother. A sun and spear brooch is fastened to his shirt, and it taunts her. 

"As do you, my Princess. Our Dornish clothes suit you."

She smiles nervously and casts about to find something else to talk about lest they fall into awkward silence.

"Was the journey hard?"

"I imagine your journey has been harder." He stares at her, and his eyes look like they _know,_ and she turns away. 

"I cannot wait to get to know my new home."

"You shall find Dorne most welcoming."

"Everyone has been very kind so far." 

"And they shall stay that way, else they will regret it."

Despite herself, Sansa shudders, but to her great relief they are almost at the hall. The men guarding the door bow to the two of them respectfully, letting them past. The hall is huge, glossy marble floors and tiles on the wall with more mosaics. Sansa has a feeling all of Dorne is this decorated in this lovely fashion; all archaic art and jewels, tiles, marbles, Myrish carpets and silks. Rich tapestries line the room, with the most dominant being the orange sun and spear sigil of House Martell. Dozens of candles flicker in the late afternoon air, their perfume sticking to Sansa's skin as she walks in. 

"Sansa." Arianne appears at the entrance, looking lovely in dark blue. "Are you happy with your dress? You look beautiful. Tell her Uncle."

"Do you take me for a fool niece?" Oberyn eyes her with amusement. "I compliment every pretty person I see."

"The dress is perfect." Sansa assures Arianne. "I cannot thank you enough."  

"Your smile is enough thanks." Arianne laughs at Sansa's blush, and steals her from Oberyn to lead her to her seat. Prince Doran sits at the top end of the table, with Myrcella one side and Arianne at the other. Sansa sits on Arianne's other side, followed by Oberyn and Ellaria, while Trystane and Ser Arys accompany Myrcella at her side of the table. 

Myrcella smiles at Sansa in welcome, smoothing her pretty pearl pink dress. "You look pretty."

"Not as pretty as you Princess Myrcella." Sansa says as she sits down. 

"This will be where we take our meals together." Arianne tells the newcomers at the table. "Sansa, I've selected a number of Dornish girls from the Water gardens to serve as your ladies, they'll be arriving tomorrow. As for you Myrcella, I've also delegated a girl to help with Rosamund's duties so the poor girl isn't too tired. I know your maids will also appreciate the lighter work. You'll get some new dresses soon too, now I know your sizes." Her eyes flash triumphantly, and she holds out her hand for the servingwoman to fill her goblet. 

Sansa murmurs her thanks as the servants bring out the first dish. Fat red Dornish peppers stuffed with melted cheese, and Sansa nibbles at it cautiously. She hopes she'll get used to the fiery Dornish food, for at the moment every spice makes her eyes tear up and her mouth burst into flame and she drinks cups of lemon water to quench the fire.

"Are you liking Dorne so far?" Prince Oberyn inquires and Sansa nods quickly.

"It is very beautiful. The buildings, all the jewels..." She smiles. "It's very hot too."

"Even hotter in the height of summer. Thank the gods we are entering winter."

"Winter is always coming."

The words slip from her without thought and she bites her tongue in annoyance. Oberyn smiles. When he smiles the corners of his eyes wrinkle. She turns her back to Oberyn, not wanting to think of him and their marriage. She turns to the Prince of Dorne, who has just finished conversing with Myrcella and Trystane. 

"Prince Doran," She asks. "If I may ask, would it be possible to use your chair on rocky ground?"

"I would not like to try it, but as Dorne is all sand I confess I have no idea." Prince Doran asks gently. "Why do you ask?"

She opens her mouth before closing it, reconsidering. She never spoke about her brothers in front of the Lannisters, but with Prince Doran being as sick as he is perhaps...

"You may speak freely Lady Sansa." Prince Doran tells her.

"My brother Bran is crippled." She eventually says. "He cannot walk but maybe he could use a chair like yours. I could write to the Maester at Winterfell and ask him about such an invention. Maybe he could modify your design somewhat, make it more fit for the North." 

"I would like to hear about your North someday." Prince Doran smiles. "It seems a wonderful place."

"It has a few similarities with us, hard to believe as it is." Prince Oberyn laughs warmly, taking a sip of Dornish red from his goblet. Sansa turns to stare at him, for how did he know anything of the North? 

The next course distracts them, and Sansa sweats at the spicy snake served, mouth burning. Everyone from Kings Landing is the same to the amusement of the native Dornish and they smile over their cups as their fellow diners gulp down water and ale. 

"A toast." Arianne declares, when Sansa's eyes have stopped streaming and she can hold herself with dignity again. "We should raise our glasses in toast Father, to our new Princesses." 

"To family." Prince Doran agrees with a nod, holding up his goblet.

"To family." Sansa murmurs along with the rest, and as she takes a sip of Dornish red she thinks of Bran and Rickon back home in Winterfell, and Robb and Mother still fighting against the Lannisters and Arya, wherever she may be. Her Father may be gone, but she still has a family, a huge family now. Everyone in Dorne has shown her nothing but kindness so far, and she prays to the Seven that they continue to do so. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

She writes a letter the following day to Bran and Rickon, filled with enthusiasm and hope that her little brother will be able to go around Winterfell at his own will with the help of a chair like Prince Doran. He'll need to build up the strength in his arms, Prince Doran tells her later, but he is a young boy and I am well past my prime.

She writes so much on the parchment that her hand starts to cramp, and she tells them all about Dorne, the hot food and hot weather and hot- well hot  _everything._ She folds the parchment up and presses the sun and spear stamp to the wax, watching it stiffen and dry within seconds by the Dornish sun. The desk in her bedchambers is of the finest mahogany, the wood smooth to write upon, and she strokes her chin with the handsome feather quill in her hand - a most wonderful colour, iridescent blue and green that flashes everytime it catches the light. She wants desperately to write to Mother and Robb, but has no idea where they are. Last she had heard they were in Riverrun but that was weeks ago, they may have visited numerous other places in between. 

The sun is so warm on her back, filling her with such levity that she rolls her neck to get rid of the ache and writes one anyway. Even if it never gets sent, or gets taken away by the fastest crow and never arrives at its destination, at least she gets the satisfaction to write all her worries and fears out on paper. Princess Arianne had told her she has free use of whatever she desires with a bemused tone of voice, because 'you live here now Sansa, why should you not be allowed to write home?'. 

By the time she has finished writing the letter counts to three pieces of parchment, a bulky scroll to unravel and as she scoops them into her arms and makes her way out of her bedchambers she wonders if the crow will even be able to carry that much weight. 

It is always busy here, Sansa reflects as she wanders down the corridors looking for Sunspear's Maester. Everyone she passes curtises or bows to her and she can only smile awkwardly and say a few words in gratitude. She eventually finds the Maesters room, and Maester Myles ties them to a crow as soon as she hands them over. 

"I've never used the crow that travels to Winterfell before. I think Princess Arianne used the Riverrun one once... she fancied herself as Lady Tully."

"Truly?" Sansa says surprised and Maester Myles nods. He's younger than Sansa expected, with a perfumed beard he strokes as he chuckles.

"The Princes soon put a stop to that notion."

Sansa watches the crow turn to a speck on the horizon before bidding farewell and leaving. 

* * *

The expedition to the hidden beaches on Sunspear takes a while. There had been a flurry of activity in the courtyard of the palace as various children declared they were going, and others wanted to go to the markets too  _please,_ and it was two hours after Prince Trystane had first broached the idea to his betrothed that they eventually reach the coast. 

Sunspear is surrounded on three sides by the sea, and whilst most of the beaches are stony and rocky, hidden pockets of unblemished sand are easy to find if you know the way. Sansa slips and slides after Prince Trystane, who helps Myrcella over the rocks with a courteous hand. The Sand Snakes run ahead, shouting and giggling with glee, and Sansa stares down at her feet making sure the hem of her dress doesn't get wet. She was an afterthought, included only when Oberyn had come across the eagerly planning youngsters and inquired _loudly_  why his betrothed was not among them. Sansa had hastily withdrawn from the window she'd gazed down at them from, and a few minutes later they'd all piled into her room with bright smiles Sansa couldn't quite trust. She has barely spoken more then ten minutes with the Prince and never in private company without the distraction of others, and the thought that someday soon she will be expected to warm his bed makes her light-headed. He is perfectly civil in conversation, his tone genial and soft, and although he makes bawdy jokes to his elder daughters and niece he never directs any thoughts of that nature towards her. He's even made his younger daughters invite her along to their outings, and even though the youngest - Loreza, Sansa was fairly sure her name was - natters freely towards her, bright eyes crinkling with simple joy, the one closest to her in age - Elia, keeps company with Prince Trystane and Myrcella and barely bothers.

Sansa tells herself that she doesn't care, that friends and people to talk and laugh with are only pretenders who must put up with her presence, and they don't truly want to know how she is or what she wants to do, and only try to catch her out in lies. For a wild mad moment she wishes her sister Arya was with her, crazed as she was. Sansa knew she would fit in seamlessly with these loud and proud Dornish, who race each other across the sand regardless of dignity, pummelling their Prince into the sand and flicking water at each other with giggles. It has been so long since Sansa has done something so menial she doesn't truly know what to do, and contents herself with walking across the bronze sands watching the footprints of the other girls disappear in the soft waves lapping an inch away.

The day is hot as usual, with not a wisp of cloud in the bright blue sky above them, and the water that languidly rolls over Sansa's feet is so cold it makes her shiver.

"Sansa come in!" Myrcella calls, face open and shining with friendship. Sansa knows the Princess well, admires her even given how she grew up with her brother Joffrey and remained so nice and pure, but Myrcella has Rosamund, and Trystane, and she has no place for traitors given Septa Eglantine's subtle looks in her direction.

"My dress will be ruined." Sansa raises her voice over the splashes and waves.  

"Trystane says they'll dry quickly! It's so beautiful and cold!" A drop of water rolls off the end of Myrcella's nose.

"Are you scared?" 

Sansa stares down at the Sand Snake who had doubled back to skip by her side, black curls damp and plastered to her chin.

"No." Sansa says and Loreza sticks her bottom lip out as she examines her closely. "Are you?"

"No." She lets out a giggle before running back into the sea. "It's fun!" 

She pounces on her older sister and Obella shoves her off with a cry and they both fall under the blue waves for a second, two, three...

They pop up again gasping for breath and laughing fiercely and Sansa's stomach lurches with relief. 

"Come in _please._ " Loreza says, turning to look at her with pleading eyes, and how can Sansa look into her little face and disappoint her? Sansa takes a tentative step forward and gasps in delight when the cold water touches her ankles. At the encouraging laughs and squeals around her she treads deeper into the sea and when the water reaches her hips she allows a smile to grace her face, because it was so cool and refreshing. The sticky hotness is washed from her skin and she sighs happily. She shudders when someone splashes water at her, and she can taste the salt sharp and tangy on her lips, and it sticks to her eyelashes as she laughs and splashes them back. The grains of sand that crumble beneath her feet stick in between her toes and water trickles through her fingers she holds aloft to admire the way the light makes the sea shines like diamonds.

She doesn't catch who pulls her ankle and yanks her under, but the sudden shock of being underneath the waves makes her panic. She bursts out gasping for breath, red locks plastered to her face. She swipes away the soaked strands, breath wheezing through her lips as she looks for the culprit, but there's so many bodies around her she doesn't truly know - although she would wager a guess it was Elia from the way her lips are set into an amused smirk. Sansa's too much of a lady to do the same back, but she does stick her leg out in her direction, and when Elia trips up allowing Trystane the chance to dunk her head under the waves, Sansa is sure anyone could have slipped; the slimy seaweed beneath them danced in lazy currents that could easily trap and ensnare someone not paying attention. Prince Trystane grins at her, eyes flashing with delight and she smiles timidly back. He motions her over with one long arm slapping the water and she half-floats over to him. Myrcella bobs beside her and turns to grin, tiny pearl teeth glittering.  

"You should see the animals further out." Prince Trystane tells them, drifting as a wave surges and crests around them. 

"What animals?" Myrcella asks enchanted. 

"Further out?" Sansa says nervously, staring out at the sea before them that stretched as far as the eye could see. 

"There's all sorts of creatures. Fish and dolphins and-"

"We saw dolphins on our ship here!" Myrcella says with delight. "Didn't we Sansa?" 

She turns to Sansa, her golden curls flying around madly. Sansa nods.

"There's crabs on the beach, and starfish. Shall we go look in the rock pools?" 

When a Prince has decided, everyone agrees and they file after him out of the sea and further along the beach. Sand sticks to her bare legs and she grimaces as they walk, bending down to brush the grains away. Her loose silks are almost see through now, but Trystane spoke true, her dress is drying already. 

They manouvre around the rocks, shades of black and brown and grey, crumbling and _sharp_. Sansa narrowly avoids cutting her palm as she joins the huddle around the closest rockpool. Her, Myrcella and Rosamund ooh and aah at the multicoloured creatures with tentacles that wave back and forth in the shallow water, the tiny crabs with pincers and fish that have shells on their backs that scuttle under the seaweed; there's even a queer starfish, but it doesn't truly look like a star. 

"You know if you cut one of their legs off they grow back." Trystane tells them.

"No!" Rosamund giggles. "That can't be true!"

"It is, I've seen it happen myself."

"How?" Myrcella asks in a hushed tone, lips parting in awe.

"My Uncle showed me one day." 

Sansa's head jerks up to Prince Trystane when she hears that. She shouldn't truly be surprised her betrothed went maiming animals, he was known as the Red Viper, and what did snakes do? Kill and wound, and although Prince Oberyn had been naught but kind so far it only made her more suspicious than if he had outright beaten her. She knows the time he has spent so far in Sunspear he has been either with Ellaria or his daughters, or with his brother Prince Doran talking about private buisness, and Sansa wonders if he regularly goes to the beach with his children. He has raised his bastard daughters as his own and taught them how to fight or whatever they desired, and at meals he always has a little story to tell her about them, eyes glittering with love. He seems like he cares for his family; and at the very least Sansa believes he will be a good Father to their children if not husband.

"I want to go the markets Trys!" Dorea shouts, plaits flying around her as she swerves away from her sister and bats the crab Elia taunts her with away. 

"Put the crab back Elia." Loreza says dolefully, crouching down on wavering legs to coo at the silvery fish in the neighbouring rockpool. Her bottom lip pokes out and Elia hastily drops the crab back in the water. Loreza beams up at her, eyelashes brushing her chubby cheeks. 

"We can have dinner." Obella joins her sister, a whining note in her voice. "I'm hungry."

"Princess Myrcella, Princess Sansa, Lady Rosamund," Prince Trystane looks at them in turn. "Would you like to see the markets of Sunspear and taste the street food or retire back to the palace for lunch?"

"It is your decision." Sansa says immediately. 

"You are new here." Trystane says simply. "You choose." 

"Can we see the markets?" Myrcella asks shyly, her bottom lip catching on her teeth and Trystane nods eagerly. The Sand Snakes whoop and holler, racing each other back up the stone steps into Sunspear. Sansa can't help but smile when Loreza shrieks, tiny fat legs wobbling as she runs after her sisters, black locks tangled and stiff with the salt in the sea.

* * *

There is so much to see in Sunspear; an overpowering sensation of sounds and scents and people crushing against one another. Merchants call out merrily to their Prince when he passes, and shout welcome to their new Princesses and bid them to try their new oyster soup flavoured with rich spices. Prince Trystane's status allows them to have whatever they could possibly want for free, and Sansa wanders between the stalls admiring the sea shells strung on pieces of rope and painted for childrens jewellery, the pretty cloaks of silk that flashed iridescent in the sun adorned with pearls and jewels that flow so smoothly and soft through her fingers. One stall is full of inquisite wooden sculptures, remarkably life-like, and Sansa stares at the Prince Joffrey figure and resists the urge to trample it underfoot. There are others too - boats and birds and fish. Bracelets and necklaces made of copper glint as they catch the sun, and thick woollen blankets to keep one cool on the Dornish nights when travelling across the sands are the orange sun and spear sigil of House Martell. There are fish hooks and netting, shards of looking-glass decorated with paint and tiny shells one might buy to display on their dresser, numerous sets of what Sansa thinks is cyvasse. Customers bargin and barter and holler as they make their way through the narrow streets, and song birds warble in their cages, and Sansa's heart leaps into her throat when she sees the skinny dogs lay slumped in cages with flies crawling on their ears even though they could not replace Lady, could never replace Lady.

They eat huge chunks of tender fish that melts in their mouth, pierced with wooden sticks and flavoured with lemon juice and flakes of red spices that burn Sansa's tongue. There are peppers too, filled with ham and cheese and onion, and huge bowls of sticky rice mixed up with vegetables and other seafood that Sansa isn't too keen on, but there's plenty of desserts to try too. Cakes flavoured with orange and stuffed with cherries and custard that drips on Sansa's chin, hard and sticky sweets that taste of almonds and honey and is almost sickly, soft biscuits that crumble in Sansa's mouth and the most delicious lemon cakes Sansa has ever eaten. 

She can't resist moaning as she finishes the fluffy cakes topped with sugar and drizzled with lemon juice, a dash of mint. Beside her Myrcella is gnawing on a huge chunk of fried dough topped with sugar and honey, and Rosamund is delicately tearing apart a blood orange.

"It's so lovely here." Rosamund sighs. The others nod in agreement.

They're all slumped underneath the statue of a woman - Sansa believes it to be Nymeria although she isn't completely sure - away from the direct sun overhead, and Sansa's belly is so full, she is so warm, she could easily nod off right now in the middle of the street. She brushes her dress once more, Princess Myrcella hadn't hesitated to sit down in the dust and dirt with the others, but Sansa didn't want to ruin her new dresses so was cautious and chose her spot after a brief inspection. Loreza shuffles towards her, poking her tongue between the gap in her teeth charmingly. 

"Look at my spinny top." 

She holds out a shiny piece of carved wood fashioned into a circle at one end and a tip at the other, decorated with dots of multicoloured paint.  She places the tip on the sand and twists it; the colours blur into a pretty flash that circles around for a few seconds before falling to one side.

"It's very pretty." Sansa smiles. "Did you buy it yourself?"

"Father gave me a coin yesterday because I was good." She grins at Sansa. "I'm not like Elia."

"I heard that Loree!" Elia shouts lazily from the other side of the group where she plays a complicated game with Obella involving a piece of string wrapped around her hands.  

"I don't think my sister likes you." Loreza whispers confidentially, leaning in close. "But don't worry I do."

"Thank you." Sansa says, and tries to blink away the stupid tears that rise in happiness.

* * *

They arrive back at Sunspear dusty and hot, full of laughter and light. Loreza had begged Sansa to plait her hair, and she's almost like the sister Sansa had dreamed of in place of Arya whenever they had a fierce row. She reminds herself that soon Loreza will be her daughter by marriage, but all she wants is to be friends with the Sand Snakes. She has no plans to steal Oberyn from their Mother Ellaria, she doesn't doubt she could even try, and Sansa knows they will not listen if a girl younger then her in Elia's case, were to boss them around.  

Sansa seperates from the wild pack as soon as possible, trailing back to her bedchambers alone lost in thought. When she opens the door and looks up she quickly realises she's in the wrong room, for she did not sleep or bathe in the library. She takes a few minutes to explore anyway, pulling out books with titles that might interest her to read on a night, examining the maps of Dorne on the wall embroidered onto tapestries. The late afternoon sun streams through the window bathing her in golden sunlight, and she can see the motes of dust in the air dancing as she steps forward towards the window.

"Princess Sansa."

Her hand flies to her throat as she chokes on a scream, gagging the impulse to run away and flee. She slowly turns around wide-eyed, and the Prince of Dorne's younger brother holds both hands up in a lazy surrender.

"You left the door open. I apologise for intruding. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Prince Oberyn smiles ruefully. “That will never be my intent.”

She nods and looks down at her feet quickly.

“You needn’t curtsey either, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Her eyes dart up to his in surprise, and his smile is contagious. She bites her lip to disguise the edges of her lips turning upwards, but his eyes sparkle, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening in amusement and she lets her smile free. He likes that, she decides, because he chuckles under his breath and wanders over to the window beside her. He pretends not to notice how she automatically stiffens, and Sansa takes a deep breath because she was so stupid, because Oberyn had been naught but kind to her for some reason, and she-

“It’s a beautiful view, is it not?” He says conversationally.

“Yes Prince Oberyn.” Sansa murmurs, gazing out at the sea that glistens on the horizon. They stand there for a minute in silence, appreciating the beauty around them.

"My daughters tell me you went to the markets today, and down to the shore."

"Yes Prince Oberyn."

"Did you enjoy it?" 

She nods. "The people of Sunspear are very kind, and the market was wonderful." 

“You would like the Water Gardens.” He tells her. “Children of all stations of life play there. Daughters of merchants and sons of sailors. Toddlers just learning to walk splashing in the shallow pools, children older than yourself challenging each other to hold their breath the longest, fighting on each other’s backs for glory. Perhaps I should take you there.”

“I am happy wherever you decide we shall go.”

“Sansa you are my betrothed. You shall be my wife soon, and when I ask my wife if she should like to go somewhere I would like to know her opinion.” His mouth flattens with annoyance, and a sweep of shame falls on Sansa.

“I do not want to be a burden to you, Prince Oberyn.” She says, her mind filled only with those words from the letter Joffrey had tormented her with.

“You are only just a woman grown Lady Sansa. A delicate and gracious woman-child, impeccably well mannered, courteous and accommodating at any turn. You are anything but a burden to me or Dorne.”

She hesitates.

“Why do you think you are a burden?” He asks, voice warm with curiosity, and he eyes her with genuine interest. Sansa plays with the necklace around her collarbone nervously, fingers pulling at the silver like it was wont to choke her. When she cannot answer, her tongue tied and sweat clinging to the back of her neck Oberyn frowns. Another surge of misery assaults Sansa when she sees she has made him angry at her failure to reply.

“My father was a traitor, I have traitors blood, my brother marches against the Iron throne, I’m not to be trusted.”

Oberyn hums thoughtfully, examining every inch of her face. “Well I’ve only known you a few days, but I think you’re to be trusted.”

Sansa stares at him like he’s gone mad. What would possess him to possibly trust a girl he doesn’t even want to marry, that nobody in his entire kingdom wants around?

“You could have said anything to me about what the Lannisters did to you as soon as you arrived, but you’ve breathed not a word to anyone, not even when Princess Myrcella or any of her associates have been away.”

Sansa flinches away from him. “You speak of treason against the King. I’m loyal to King Joffrey I told you, I-”

“Here in Dorne, we rule ourselves. We are loyal to ourselves.”

“You’re loyal to the Iron Throne.” Sansa tells him, appalled at the mere notion that a Prince of Dorne dared to say the Dornish answered to the Prince of their domain and not the King in the Red Keep another realm away. “That’s why I’m here in Dorne, in Sunspear. I’m a burden, the letter said, I’m here because of your friendship. You don’t want to marry me, I know that.” Her voice quivers and breaks in horror at what’s she’s blurted in sheer panic and she bites down on her tongue hard, fingers entangling together as she tries to work through the mess of her mind.

She expects Prince Oberyn to rebuke her at least, to beat her and turn her away at most and leave her to make her way back to the Red Keep herself, but not to stand in silence for a moment before leaning in and placing a thick hand over hers. He stops her fingers from twisting, the motion forcing her to meet his gaze. She finds anger quite absent, a queer sympathetic light to his eyes instead and she prepares herself for the worst.

“Lady Sansa you may be the daughter of a man accused of being a traitor, but many people wanted you. Many bad people. You think the Lannisters would not marry you to one of their own if not the King? The Imp, Lancel Lannister, Tywin Lannister himself is at battle against your brother and remains unwed since Lady Joanna passed. They would treat you like nothing more than a brood mare or punch bag when the mood took them, and would care not one whit for your feelings.”

“I-” He hushes the questions on her lips with answers.

"Here in Dorne we will care for you, protect you, love and cherish you in whatever way you want. You may hate me as a husband but I am a good, gentle man to little girls and wouldn't dare cause any harm no matter what their family have or have not done. You are safe Sansa, and I hope one day you can overcome your fear and live a good life here, one of happiness and freedom and no regrets."

His words leave her breathless, speechless, and she can only watch mutely as he slowly picks up her hand and kisses her knuckles, a swift brush of his lips she almost misses he is so gentle. He squeezes her fingers once before retreating.

He pauses a few paces away, a strand of hair falling into his eyes as he rocks his hip against the corner of a bookcase. "You may take whichever book you want. Keep it forever, if you so wish. Whatever is here is yours now."  

Then he's gone, and Sansa drops to the floor with her arms around her knees trying to comprehend what had just happened. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

When Sansa scurries back to her bedchamber and shuts the door behind her it takes a long second for her to notice she isn't alone.

Oberyn's confession still pounds in her ears, her thoughts dizzy. It had all been a trick then, from the start. A facade, an act of deceit. But Oberyn himself seems to be nothing but honest towards her if she can believe what he says, and he wants her only to be happy and free from the ghost of her Father and all that had occured in Kings Landing. It doesn't make sense! Surely they must want something in return, her body or her name? Do they think she truly has such an influence in matters, could sway people from one side to another in the war raging in Westeros? Her brother was King of the North true, but Sansa doesn't want to play the game of thrones, she doesn't want to be a Princess at all, she hates the title bestowed on her now. As if she was one of the ladies from a song! Sansa is anything but; she is an old crone masquerading in a maiden's body, weary of the world and uncertain of her place in it. Pushed aside to the shadows bruised and broken, and now the Martell's want to polish her up once more just like Queen Cersei did with a betrothal fit to flaunt in front of every noble, and surely they want more, they cannot possibly only be interested in such an inconsequential thing as her happiness. It makes Sansa feel ill, shivering right down to her bones-

"My Lady would you like a bath?" 

Sansa's brain stops endlessly whirling for a few seconds, and she stares at the girls in front of her like they had just appeared from mid-air. One is alike a living incarnation of a statue with her tawny golden skin and bronze hair, the swirling amber eyes that look languidly down as she curtsies.

"I'm Zhoe." She announces, voice loud and bold, her lips tilting into a smile. "Princess Sansa it's an honour to be chosen by Princess Arianne to serve you as one of your ladies." 

The second girl swiftly follows suit, cornflower blue eyes glimmering softly, and Sansa remembers too late how Princess Arianne had told her new maids were to arrive. "And I am Rhea. Is there aught we can do for you?"

Sansa debates for a second. "Yes, you are right I would like a bath. I know it is early, but I have been out in the markets all afternoon and covered in dust; I should hate to be in the Prince of Dorne's presence at dinner like this."

"Of course." Rhea's feet barely make a sound as she skips to the door, strawberry blonde hair swinging side to side. 

Sansa stands awkwardly in the centre of her bedchamber as Zhoe drags the bathtub out. 

"What dress are you to wear?" She chatters. "Shall I do your hair? I'm the best braider in the whole of Dorne my Mother says, and Princess Arianne surely agrees!" She lets out a little laugh. "More dresses arrived for you whilst you were out see?" She opens Sansa's dresser and stares at her critically, lips pursed and thick eyebrows furrowing.

"I think the dark blue one suits your eyes perfectly." She tugs it out and lies it on Sansa's bed with a loving sigh. 

Sansa lowers herself down suddenly intensely weary of new people and places and situations she had never dreamed. Her fingers stroke the dark blue dress absently. It's got a high lace collar, the bodice decorated with beads and a huge slit up one side Sansa feverently hopes doesn't go above her knee for anything more would be scandalous. 

She jumps when Rhea pours the water into the tub and shakes her head at her own stupidity. She wasn't desirable at all, with her shaken nerves and what was it Joffrey had said? Dornish whore, she was to be a Dornish whore. Oberyn _says_ he broached the marriage to keep her safe but she barely knew the man who had gotten bastard daughters around Westeros and slept with  _everyone,_ and she doesn't want to have a babe in her belly yet even though Joffrey and Queen Cersei believe she'll be dead within the year... Oberyn said she'd hate him as a husband and he couldn't care for her at all, how could he care for her when he knows nothing of her? It's a trick, a lie, a double-crossing just like they played the Lannister's to get her here. Now she's unable to escape and he'll be kind until their wedding night and then he'll - then he'll - 

"Lady Sansa?" Zhoe says, eyes widening. "Are you alright?"

"Leave me." She chokes, nails digging into her palm as she inhales tightly. "I shall manage my bath by myself." 

Zhoe and Rhea exchange a glance before Rhea picks up the empty bucket and props it on her hip. 

"Call us if you require our services. We'll be in our quarters." They disappear into their own rooms ajoined onto Sansa's closing the door softly behind them.

Sansa closes her eyes, willing herself to regain her composure. She was a fool, a stupid little girl, and wasn't it obvious how she struggles to breath even now just imagining the horrors they'll inflict on her? She just wants all the lies to stop, she wants Oberyn to just rape her now if he wanted to rather then keep her constantly in a state of paranoia with his fake attempts of friendliness, and she staggers to her bathtub and cups water into her shaky hands to throw on her face. It helps, a little bit, and she slumps to the floor in relief when a few minutes pass and her lungs open up allowing her to breathe normal again. She sighs deeply, nails threading into the roots of her hair. What could she do to defend herself? Nothing she was- no. Her eyes flick to the knife laid on the tray of fruit she picked at to break her fast that morning. Silver and ornate, and definitely sharp. Mayhaps she could use that, so if Oberyn did do something unsavoury she could what - threaten him?  _Kill_ him? No, no she'd rather kill herself and let it all be over. 

She lets out a gurgle of laugh and shakes her head before tugging her dress over her head and stepping into her cold bath. 

* * *

It is a quiet affair at the table that night, with nothing but the scrapes of cutlery on plates as they eat. The air is thick with tension, Sansa can spy it in Arianne's pinched lips and pulled taut shoulders, the way Ellaria's eyes flicker to Oberyn, the way Sansa herself keeps her head ducked focused firmly on her food and only talking to answer a question when she is adressed.  Sansa doesn't know why Arianne and Prince Doran seem to be at odds, but she knows exactly why her own stomach lurches everytime she chews methodically and swallows the tasteless food. If he reached out and took her hand right now... she would recoil, but she would do her duty. Sansa is a Lady and does what she must with dignity and grace. That's what her Mother told her. The Tully's words were  _Family, Duty, Honour,_ but doing ones duty is so  _hard._ Sansa wishes her Mother was here with her right now. She would know what to say, to do. She'd brush her hair the way she did when she was little and they could talk about Father... 

"Princess Myrcella," Arianne leans across the table. "Did you enjoy the outing today? How is Trystane treating you?" 

"I love it here." Myrcella says cheerily, seemingly immune to the atmosphere around her. "Trystane is very kind." She blushes. 

"Yes my  _youngest_ brother Trystane is a pleasure. You haven't heard of Quentyn yet have you? He's just like Father." Arianne's eyes flit to Prince Doran who glares at his daughter. 

"Will Prince Quentyn be coming to visit?" Sansa ventures to ask.

"He leads a very busy life." Prince Doran says.

"Yes he does." Princess Arianne's smile is tight.  

Sansa has heard of this Quentyn Martell, dutiful like his Father, and Sansa has no idea why Prince Doran did not arrange a match between herself and him. He's only a few years her elder after all, and he has no bastards Sansa knows of. 

"Quentyn is very dedicated to his family despite being fostered with the Yronwood's." Prince Doran's tone ends the discussion and Sansa goes back to silently eating her food, wondering how exactly Quentyn could be described as dedicated if he lived at the opposite side of Dorne with a different family. Like her and Robb she supposes. Robb is King of the North and in the Riverlands now, while Sansa is here in Dorne, and Sansa will always be devoted to her older brother. If only he could have saved her before she left Kings Landing, she could be back in Winterfell right now with Bran and Rickon and Arya.  

The meal ends quickly, and Princess Arianne stalks off in the opposite direction of her Father who sighs wearily as Arianne's black curls bounce out of view. 

"Would you like me to help?" Sansa offers, standing and extending a hand when she sees the grimace on his face as his frail hands clutch the handles of his chair. "You must be tired, it's been a long day." 

He smiles softly. "I cannot let a little Princess push an old feeble man around." 

"I would not have offered if I did not wish to help." Sansa says. 

"You go and have fun, enjoy your night." Prince Doran touches the wrist of the huge guard that always shadows him and Sansa swallows thickly, gaze drawn to his huge longaxe, and in a funny way he reminds her of Ser Ilyn Payne and how he fiercely guarded his greatswird, and how he had thrown Father to the ground and-

Sansa nods hurriedly and turns to go, avoiding Prince Oberyn who dabs at his mouth with a cloth and rises.

"Lady Sansa."

"Prince Oberyn." Sansa's heart hammers in her throat, and she wonders how long it will take for her to tamper down the blind panic that comes every time he speaks. She chides herself, for she is a Stark, and she must be as brave as Robb fighting the Lannisters. 

"Have a good night."

"Thank you." Sansa says. "I will."

* * *

Zhoe has unbraided her hair with deft hands, and Rhea's taken her other dress for washing, and Sansa walks barefoot across her room, toes scrunching from the cool marble to take a book from one of shelves. Sansa has decided to read for a while before bed, and she asks Zhoe to light a candle before she leaves for the night. Zhoe immediately does as she asks, turning to go when there's a knock at the door.

Zhoe's eyebrows climb up her forehead in excitement. "Shall I answer it?" 

She practically gallops over in her haste, pausing to clear her throat and tame her curls, tugging the collar of her dress down before opening the door.

"Princess Arianne." She says, voice brimming with happiness. "Are you well?"

"I am perfectly fine Zhoe." Arianne laughs. "And I told you it's just Arianne." 

Zhoe flushes and Arianne looks over at Sansa stood clad in her nightgown. Sansa dearly hopes Arianne bursting into her bedchambers isn't becoming a habit. 

"Sansa." She says richly. "You are to come to my bed tonight." 

"P-pardon?" She stammers, and Arianne flicks her curls over one shoulder and twines her arm around Sansa's.

"We're going to talk about our day and what men or women take our fancy." She smiles wickedly. "Have you never had a bedmaid before?" 

"I had a friend in Winterfell. Jeyne Poole, she was the stewards daughter." Sansa frowns at the thought, because Jeyne has disappeared without a trace. Probably dead like Father and the rest of the household that had gone to Kings Landing, or pretending to be someone she was not to stay safe. Sansa wishes she could be a peasant sometimes with all the luck anoymity gave them. 

"We used to eat lemon cakes and jam tarts." She recalls, remembering the way Jeyne was always giggling and whispering about the looks Theon or Robb sent her, and Sansa would always get annoyed because Robb would never marry Jeyne and besides she always thought Jeyne liked one of the boys in the winter village. They would laugh about Arya's antics and discuss their dream wedding and plans for the future, and Sansa swallows back an ironic burst of laughter because she never imagined her future being in Dorne.

"Have fun Lady Sansa, just Arianne." Zhoe smirks at Arianne, heat simmering in her big eyes and Arianne laughs shaking her head so her curls dance and ripple enticingly around her shoulders.

It astounds Sansa how every person in Dorne treats their Princess as equal to them, and she in turn never flouts her title unseemingly. She can't say the same for Zhoe's behaviour though, but everyone knows the Dornish were peculiar in their taste; kissing and lying with people of the same sex however  _that_ worked. She frowns, because it's impossible for women to get with child when they laid with another girl - everyone knew it was a man that made the babe, but why would people choose to kiss and lay with people when nothing could ever come from it? Father hadn't loved Mother when they first met, it had taken many years and the births of Sansa and all her siblings for that to happen. How could people be with another and be happy and content _in love_ when they could bear no children or be together for everyone to see? If Sansa had ever kissed Jeyne she was sure her Mother would send her straight to the Seven and pray to be cleansed before making her join the Silent Sisters, but here girls tease and kiss and do things Sansa can't even imagine and face no punishment or prejudice. Sansa knows many girls are pretty, some prettier then her, but she cannot possibly think of touching them as a man might; she cannot even truly picture herself kissing Prince Oberyn and laying with him either, and gods what if he wants Ellaria to join in?

Sansa's eyes widen. 

"Look Zhoe you are shocking Princess Sansa." Arianne admonishes and Sansa looks away with hot cheeks. 

"I apologise Lady Sansa." Zhoe says demurely and Sansa risks looking back through the thick strands of her curls. "I like to jape."

"That's not all you like."

Now Arianne is smirking back at her maid and Sansa stares at her agog.

"And now we truly must go before poor Sansa swoons." Arianne laughs, and Sansa doesn't miss the wink Zhoe tosses her before they leave. Sansa lets Arianne lead her through the corridors, who pats her hand and marvels at her sweetness.

"I forget how young and pure I once was." Arianne muses before she nods at the guard stood by her chambers and the huge doors open. 

Sansa takes in the ornate bedroom clustered with other people sprawled on chaise lounges or cushions on the floor, cross legged on her four poster bed. There was Nymeria and Tyene, and Myrcella and Rosamund sat hand in hand on a huge golden embroidered pillow, Elia and Obella rolling onto their stomachs on the Myrish carpet. 

"Sit down Sansa," Nymeria waves an elegant hand at her. "Would you like some wine? We have olives and crackers too, and bread and cheese." 

"Or berries and oranges and cakes." Tyene sings. "If you prefer sweets."

"Do you have any lemon cakes?" Sansa asks hopefully as Arianne moves past her. She knew she was being terribly greedy, eating two in one day, but she felt rather frazzled and taxed of late and when she ate the cakes sometimes a flicker of a cherished memory would comfort her and relax her anxiety. That, and they tasted delicious, for nowhere could you beat Dornish lemons. 

"We have a full platter!" Tyene beams, bright eyes sparkling. "Myrcella told us they were your favourite, so we came prepared." Dimples bloom in her cheeks as she presents the plate laden with cakes with a flourish. 

Sansa picks one up delicately and perches on a richely patterned pouffe as Arianne chews on an cheese laden cracker. She swallows and brushes the crumbs from her lap where she sits back propped against the banister of bed. 

"We should have music." Obella sighs. "Can we have music Arianne?"

"Tyene you should play your harp." Nymeria smirks, nudging her sister with one lazy leg. She's draped across a chaise longue, rolled onto one hip so her dress hangs off her frame and displays every curve of her body. Improper for a lady, but all Sansa can think is how much she looks like a snake - languid and unassuming but easily ready to strike if need be. They were Oberyn's daughters after all, but so far they have treated her kindly and without anger. Not that she has spoke with any of them at length as she's been here only a few days, but it was better then Elia's reaction which only confuses Sansa as she is unpredictable in her controlled distaste then flares of anger.  

Tyene flicks one skinny wrist up to shove her foot with a delicate well aimed push. Nymeria rolls back onto the chaise longue with a smirk, gazing up at the ceiling decorated with beautiful hangings of candles encased with glass that would look beautiful when the sun hit. Her chest quivers, the beads on her dress glinting, and Sansa looks down at her hands rested delicately in her lap as she finishes the lemon cake. 

"We don't need music to have fun." Arianne says, standing up to pick her way across the girls. 

"Surely her presence is enthralling enough." Nymeria grins lazily at her cousin as she passes. 

"I thought since we have two new Princesses we should celebrate. We're to have a proper welcoming feast in a few weeks or so which I'm already in the process of planning, all the Lords and Ladies of Dorne are to come and bear witness to you two. Of course there's your wedding as well Sansa." Arianne rifles through her drawers. "But I thought why not have a ladies night where we get to know each other with some friendly competition?" She holds up a pair of dice and her cousins groan.

"You always win!"

"No, sweet sister we let her win." 

"We'll play in two teams-" Arianne continues, sashaying back to the middle of the circle and sitting down. "Sansa, you shall be with Nymeria, myself, and..." Arianne fixes her eyes on one girl in particular. "Elia. Myrcella, you'll be with my sweet cousins Tyene and Obella and Rosamund."

Arianne smoothes a piece of parchment and grabs the dice.  

"The rules are quite simple..."

* * *

Sansa giggles, the wine bringing a permanant flush to her cheeks and a liquid warmness in her veins that makes her head cotton and her lips loose. The candles throw shadows over everyone, and the dice has been rolled so often Sansa has lost track of who the winners of the game even are. 

"I say shall we call it a tie?" Nymeria yawns. 

"No!" Elia says immediately. "We were winning! Tell her Sansa!" 

"I..." Sansa looks at Elia's nodding face, her eyes narrowed with determination, and feels the first flickering of goodwill towards her from her - sister? Daughter to be? Sansa knows it would be easier for herself to lie and side with Elia, be in her favour and become civil towards each other if not friends... but Sansa cannot lie to a Princess, so she takes a deep breath.

"I'm not sure Princess Arianne." 

"We shall call it a tie then." Arianne shrugs. "We are all winners." 

"In this game at least." 

Arianne stares at her golden-haired cousin who grins, her teeth stained red from the strawberries she sucked during the game.

"What do you mean by that Tyene?"

"Only that we must needs play again sometime soon. I'm sure this time we'll win." She shrugs. "How could we not with our new additions?" She nods towards Sansa and Myrcella. 

"I'm not good at games." Sansa confesses, finishing the dregs of her wine. "I always lose." 

"Well then you're bound to have good fortune soon!" Tyene says with a smile. 

"I hope so." She murmurs quietly, staring at her empty goblet. 

Elia starts bragging about the games she's best at, how her Father calls her Lady Lance, and Tyene tells her not to be so rude, and Myrcella and Rosamund express their disbelief that a girl can even practise the lance...

"Sansa."

Sansa jumps and looks up. Nymeria is sat next to her examining her face carefully, and she looks so like her Father with the same widows peak and dark eyes framed with thick lashes. 

"I know the rumours of my Father well precede him." She says softly, olive fingers brushing Sansa's wrist. "But he shall treat you kind. I know my words probably mean naught as you do not know him like I do, nor will you never. To me he is a great Father, not letting us want for anything, giving us whatever our hearts desire. To you, he shall be a husband, but he treats Ellaria with every respect and courtsey and I am sure he will do the same to you."

Sansa nods automatically.

"I know, it is hard to trust someone you don't know. You might talk to my other sister Obara for that; she was only a child when he rescued her too." 

Nymeria smiles warmly before slinking off to pour herself some more wine, and Sansa shifts, making herself more comfortable on the veritable mountain of pillows and blankets and cushions around them. Her eyes itch with tiredness, her limbs heavy and she nestles up to a cushion, hugging it to her protectively. The candles had burnt down to almost nothing now, the tiny flames flickering and leaving one still moving to squint. Obella drags a blanket over to Sansa and collapses down next to her, smiling tiredly. 

"Elia's a sore loser. I don't care one whit about who wins games." 

Her head drops onto the pillows and she rolls onto her stomach with a grunt. 

"Is it true what I heard the other day Nymeria?" Elia yawns, kicking one leg out where she squirms beside her sister. "You kissed Sansa's new servant. What's her name, Zhoe?"

Nymeria must pinch her then, for Elia yelps. 

"Yes it's true, and you're one to talk. You've been flirting with Ser Gascoyne."

"Elia he's twice your age!" Arianne bats a silk pillow at Elia who rolls away across the cushions near to Sansa who cannot help but giggle at the sight. 

"You gave your maidenhead at my age to Daemon." Her voice is muffled by a cushion, but her intended target heard clearly. Arianne's sigh is almost masked by Obella's laughter as she sits up and peers across the dim room at the shapes that were Myrcella and Rosamund, curled up by Tyene. 

"Ser Gascoyne is Prince Trystane's sworn shield - Myrcella have you seen anything amiss?"

"Shut up!" Elia growls, fingers tightening on another tassled pillow even as Myrcella giggles uncertainly. 

"He said she looked very pretty."

"I think he's very pretty." 

"You know who's pretty? Myrcella's sworn sword. What's his name?

"Ser Arys Oakheart." Arianne savours the words, twisting them in her mouth to make the name sound almost perverse. 

"He's an Oakheart?" 

"He doesn't actually have an oak heart Obella, you dolt." Elia smirks at her sister.

"I knew that!" Obella whispers fiercely. "I only meant... Father says we have a feud with them."

"Not anymore." 

"He's in Dorne now." Arianne breathes. "He shan't resist any longer."

"You haven't!"

"Not yet." 

"So he's _not_ in Dorne." Nymeria says drowsily.

Low snickers and sniggers echo in the dark room, and Sansa can feel someone breathing soft and rhymic beside her, and she's so warm and cozy. Her eyes shut tight, her body relaxing as the words slip away from her. 

Sansa lets their soft words and giggles wash over her, their voices slowly fading as one by one they succumb to sleep. Sansa falls into dreams of suns and wolves and someplace safe. 

* * *

Her hair was wet. Why was her hair wet?

Sansa's eyes crack open and she blinks hazily. Her head aches, her skin covered in sweat, her mouth dry, and she sniffs, moaning softly as she twitches. She's curled up tight, with Elia to one side of her, drool dripping from her chin onto Sansa's hair, her breath hot on Sansa's cheek, and Obella  iscurled up on her other side snoring quietly, eyelids flickering in sleep. She mumurs something under her breath Sansa doesn't catch, and Sansa rolls over onto her hip trying to extract herself from the pile of blankets and cushions that were once cosy and were now only restrictive. She slowly wriggles free, yawning lazily, slowly standing on wobbly legs and staggering around the other people asleep. Sansa is the first to awaken to little surprise, she sleeps little these days disliking how defenceless and vulnerable sleep made one. She steals a raspberry from one of the plates still left out, the tart fruit exploding on her tongue and washing out the staleness. She pours some water into a goblet and takes a gulp, watching the honey yellow sun rise. 

She looks back at the other sleeping women and girls, faces fresh and clean from emotion sprawled together a mess of limbs and hair, and a wave of hope crashes over her. 

"Sansa?" Elia mumbles when she tiptoes past to the door.

She stills, wavering on the tips of her toes. "Yes?" 

"Are you leaving?" 

"I'm off for a bath and to change into proper clothes." 

"Oh." She quietens, and Sansa slips back to her chambers filled with contentment. Even the sight of Oberyn cannot worry her, she is so... energised. How long had it been since she had laughed with other girls and giggled over boys? True, she had only been on the fringes, but soon when she's settled her and Myrcella can talk about Trystane or give their opinons on the people they gossiped over... How long had it been since she'd drifted to sleep accompined by laughter and games and merriment? By girls who seemed to care for her on one level, if Nymeria's conversation could be trusted. How long had it been since she'd had fun? She drifts down the corridors of Sunspear, loose hair tumbling down her back and she's clothed only in her thin nightgown and is barefoot, toes splayed on the glistening marble and she even manages a smile when her betrothed strolls in her direction. 

He slows at the sight of her, eyebrows rising slightly before dipping down in concern. He's dressed in riding clothes, and Sansa believes him to be an early riser too. Something they have in common aside from the Lannisters killing a loved one. 

"Lady Sansa are you well?" 

"I have just left Princess Arianne's." Sansa explains, a breathless lilt to her voice as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I had fun." 

A slow smile creeps on his lips, his eyes bright. "I'm glad." 

She nods, hands shifting to cover her chest suddenly uncomfortable with her near nakedness. "I'm off back to my chambers to dress now."

"Mayhaps I shall see you later in private?" He says, rubbing the stubble on his chin in thought.

"If-" Sansa swallows thickly, eyes darting from his. "If you wish it my Lord."

And just like that, her joy is dashed with fear once more. 


	5. Chapter 5

Arianne leads her across the castle, all smiles and bright eyes and seemingly oblivious to Sansa's panic.

"He wants to get to know his betrothed without the eyes of others." She tells Sansa.

Sansa feels she might faint as Arianne gently pulls her in the direction of Prince Oberyn's chambers. Who knew what lay behind those heavy set doors? Who knew what he would expect? He saw her this morning in a rare moment of peace, and requested a private audience, that must mean he desires to meet his betrothed intimately as quick as possible... he likes her smile, he wants her to smile for him as- Sansa forcibly changes her thoughts to a different direction, for Sansa hasn't even bled yet, and their marriage is to be had before such an event could take place. Her stomach churns sickeningly even at the thought, and she finds herself absently thinking of all the way her words could dissuade him. The Gods would look down upon you and frown. The High Septon - oh what would it even achieve, he clearly does not seek approval from the High Septon with his bastard daughters and paramour. She is so invested in her fretting she doesn't realise they're at their destination until Arianne distangles her olive arm from hers. A jolt of alarm flickers deep in Sansa's belly as she looks around the exquisitely furnished and completely empty room.

"You're leaving?"

She smiles. "You won't want me here intruding. I shall leave you to get more acquainted with my Uncle."

She shuts the door behind her and Sansa's fingers fiddle with the loose hem of her sleeve, picking at the dangling thread despite it being terribly unladylike. Prince Oberyn's room is grander then her own, large with an arch to one side that led to a huge marble bath. She eyes it warily as she wanders deeper into the room. His four poster bed is _huge,_ and he has numerous cases stuffed with books, and curious vials and pristine glass bottles in a rainbow of colours that glimmer as she moves past. She recalls his penchant for poisons and shivers, skirting past the table inlaid with jewelled emblems of the Martell sigil, the sun and spear. He has a cyvasse table to one side with the pieces all lined up neatly with only a shiny white dragon on the board, and the drawers nearby that held his clothes have handles adorned with black onyx. A harp is tucked away in one corner beside a lute, and jewellery spills out of a pretty dish on a bedside table, rings and necklaces that are definitely not his. There are other feminine touches too, fresh flowers in a tiny vase on the table, perfume in pretty bottles of Myrish glass, painted with a delicate hand creamy green and dark red among others. There's paintings too, hung on the walls beside tapestries of wild patterns. Paintings done by his own hand, or perhaps by someone close to him - dainty watercolours of Dornish scenery, of ships and spears and sea. Her eyes curiously trail over the books on his side table as she walks past. All Dornish of course: _Ten Thousand Ships_ , _The Loves of Queen Nymeria, Red Sands_ \- She frowns, and stares at the book like the title is wont to change before her eyes but no, the lettering remains the same.

_Winter's Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell._

Why did Prince Oberyn have a book about her ancestors in his room? Curiosity? Coincidence? Did he purchase it for her, so she may read it again like she had so many moons ago at home? Did he purchase it to only remind her that her Father was dead and soon she was to be a Stark no longer? Or did he purchase it for himself? To read, to mock, to throw in the fire while she watched? She gnaws on the inside of her cheek for a second in speculation, before she's diverted by spotting a roughly drawn portrait nearby of a girl with curly black locks and- No.

How rude and unladylike she was to dare linger and look over someone's personal belongings, a Prince's personal belongings, her betrothed's personal belongings. Sansa chatisises herself firmly and roughly in her mind as she drifts past and hovers on the edge of a seat, plump with cushions. Gods, she was almost turning into Arya. Her thoughts turn to her sister then, and her family. How she wishes she could see them again, but here she was in Sunspear at the opposite end of Westeros from where she wanted to be. Laughter floats into the room as the door opens and she squeezes her eyes shut for a long second in fear.

"Prince Oberyn," She says humbly, remembering hours earlier when she had stood before him breathless and bright. The joy has long since worn off to be replaced with emotions that are now well known friends. The door closes and she takes a slow deep breath staring at the dark Myrish carpet before her. Concentrating on the tiny gold stitches-

"Lady Sansa." She chances a glance upwards. Prince Oberyn is staring at her quizzically, head slightly tilted like she is something he can't quite see. 

“Are you still well?” His dark eyebrows crease slightly. “This morning you seemed full of light and laughter and now…” He trails off and crouches down to her level, leather boots creaking. His eyes are glossy, liquid with what could be warmth, long nimble fingers curling to grip tight onto the handle of her chair. She shrinks in on herself an inch, his hand too close for comfort, but when she looks into his lined face his voice is almost hypnotising.

“I assure you, you are safe here. Safe everywhere, but especially here in my chambers. I will guard you from harm.”

Sansa nods short and sharply, windpipe tight. “What if…”

_What if it is you I am so scared of? You cannot guard me from your own self._

“I know you are scared of me, of Dorne, but I think you are very brave to not say a word. Much like your treatment in Kings Landing. In time I hope you can share your secrets with me in confidence, but for the moment… I wish you no ill harm Sansa. I know you may find it hard to trust a man with my reputation, but I hope my actions so far, and especially in our upcoming marriage prove that I care for you. Not in a sexual way.” He adds quickly when Sansa tenses. “I only wish to shield you from any further harm. You are only a little girl, not yet flowered-”

A flush blots Sansa’s cheeks pink.

“And I know I have repeated myself, but I hope if I say it enough you will come to realise my words ring true.” Sansa nods again. “I think you know a lot about me.” He smiles, and his eyes twinkle and he’s handsome in his middle age, and Sansa knew a golden Prince who was handsome once, and he had beheaded her Father and hit her till she bruised. “But I know very little of you. Tell me of your home.”

“H- home?” She asks, ignoring the painful twinge in her heart when she thinks of Winterfell, and all the childhood memories it held. Pure, untarnished by the events down South, and it is her only solace that Joffrey cannot kill the Father that still lingers in old recollections. How when she was only Rickon’s age she would sit on his lap and curl her tiny slippered feet into the warmth of his thighs, head pressed against his chest snuggled close as he complimented her courtesies with a warm smile and Sansa plaited a strand of his hair just how Mother did hers. Sansa blinks the memory away and sets her jaw.

“Dorne is my home now.”

“Talk to me of your Winterfell then. In all my travels I have never been North – too cold for a Dornishman like me.” He mock shudders, but grins as he does it, slowly straightening and slowly taking two paces back to sink into the sofa opposite. He picks up a pillow and places it on his lap, playing with the tassels, threading the pieces through delicate fingers. “But mayhaps we could change that one day? When your brother leaves the Riverlands, we could go visit together, if it pleased you.”

She nods. “That would please me greatly Prince Oberyn. You are too kind.”

“Rather too kind then too cruel hmm?” She shifts uneasily under his gaze, eyes wandering over his shoulder to where the book on Northern Kings still lies.

“The South is not what I thought it would be.” Voice subdued, barely more than a whisper. “The North is vast, and cold. It rains a lot too.” She smiles faintly at the memories of getting soaked in hail, dripping wet with slush sticking to the bottom of her dress as she ran inside with Jeyne Poole shrieking and protecting her head from the downpour.

“There’s lots of moors and valleys and fields. It snows even in summer, and when winter comes blizzards keep you inside for weeks.”

It wasn’t all bad. Sansa would give anything to be back up North, back home now. Even if her boots became muddied within minutes and snow made her teeth chatter. Better than flagging in the Dornish sun as she does now, always red and sweaty and entirely out of place.

“What about the Wall? That is one wonder of the world I have not seen.”

“My Uncle Benjen is first ranger there, he goes beyond the Wall and fights wildlings." Like a man from the songs truly. "My bastard half-brother Jon serves there now as the personal steward to the Lord Commander. Lord… Mormont.” She recalls. “Jeor Mormont, who’s son Ser Jorah was banished by my Father into exile for selling slaves. His sister Maege runs Bear Island now, with her daughter Dacey as her heir.”

“You have a good memory and knowledge of houses.” Oberyn observes. “And it is nice to hear the North allow women to rule too.”

Sansa doesn’t mention that Lady Maege is the only ruling lady in the North, and only because of a lack of male heirs.

“As a wife and Princess of Dorne you will be expected to know our liege lords and ladies well.”

Sansa nods and opens her mouth before closing it.

“You were going to say something?” Oberyn encourages.

“I… I know all of your liege lords and ladies, not by sight alone but I have all the sigils and words memorised Prince Oberyn.”

“My betrothed is very smart indeed.” Oberyn praises and she feels her cheeks warm at the compliment.

“It is nice of you to say so.”

“You don’t agree?”

“I’m stupid.” She says reflexively. “And I have traitors blood so I-”

“You don’t have traitors blood Sansa.” Oberyn leans forward, so confident his tone that Sansa stops speaking mid-sentence and merely stares at him dumbfounded. “Shall I tell you why? Because your Father was not a traitor to the throne. Joffrey Baratheon is a bastard born of incest, and it was your Father’s honesty and bravery that got him killed.”

“King Joffrey is our King.” She says desperately. “He- he had to kill my Father. I’m lucky he spared me, because I have the Northern blood, the traitor blood in me.”

Her betrothed doesn’t push her to share his views or tell her she’s wrong again, only nods and takes a sip of wine from his goblet.

“I have a plan.” He says, swilling the thick red liquid around.

“A plan?” Sansa echoes.

“A plan for you to feel safer around here, to show you I mean what I say, what we all say, and that you will not be harmed here. It will consist of three parts.” She stare at him uneasily. “Who would you be more comfortable guarding you? A man or a woman?”

“Guarding me?”

“From any harm. From myself, if you truly fear for your safety in my company so much. Whatever will make you safe.”

“What are the other parts?” Sansa asks warily.

“The other two will take a bit of time, but for the meantime I hope your guard will be sufficient to alleviate your anxiety somewhat. How about my daughter Obara? If she concedes, you will have the chance to know her more intimately, and she will guard you with her life, I know.”

“I cannot ask her to do that.” Sansa says feebly. “I am fine without protection, truly. I don’t wish to inconvenience anyone.”

“Not at all. You are our new family member, we do not want to inconvenience you in any way. Obara shall like a new challenge I should think, and she will always be ready to defend you, you have my word. I do believe my daughter would pick fights with any person who dares look at you wrong, just to beat them bloody.”

Despite herself a small smile inches across Sansa’s lips at Oberyn’s talk of his eldest daughter. It is clear he is a family man and loves his daughters well, and if she can trust what he has told her once more then he means to love her too, and perhaps she could one day spend hours alone with him without her heart racing and her palms sweaty.

* * *

Sansa watches Obara spin around the dusty training yard and push one of her rivals back with a shove of her steel and copper shield, drawing her spear and circling back sharply to jab at the other man at her heels. She is big-boned and quick, and her dark hair sticks to the back of her neck as she perspires, tongue flicking out to drag across her lips and teeth. She trips the taller man of the pair with one solid kick out of her left leg, and as he stumbles her shield falls on his head. Sansa winces as he cries out in pain and blood starts to pour from his nose. In the time it takes for Sansa to half rise up from her seat the other man is also on the floor motionless and Obara is walking up to her tossing her shield aside. It sets up a plume of sand that Sansa has to blink through to see clearly her future step-daughter stood before her.

“You’re very good.” Sansa compliments, slowly sitting back down when she was sure the men were alright, stablehands rushing out to take them to Maester Myles. “I have never seen a woman warrior fight before. You are very talented with the spear.”

“Aye.” Obara agrees, sitting heavily on the marble seat beside her and chugging down the bottle of Dornish wine.

“Is it… wise?” Sansa broaches tentatively, staring at the knights walking past shooting her- or perhaps it was Obara- terrified glances. “To drink so much whilst fighting?”

“I am done for the day now, and rest assured if someone were to come and attack us now you’d still be fine.” She says, voice grave and thick eyebrows pulled together fiercely. She puts the wine to one side and grips her spear with both hands, knuckles turning white she held so tight.

“I want to give my thanks.” Sansa says. “For agreeing to be my sworn shield of sorts. I know you did n-”

“If I didn’t want to I would have said no.” Obara says bluntly. “All girls should be protected if they don’t have their own weapons. And they should. Have their own weapons.” She glances sideways at her, up and down.

“Your sister Nymeria-” Sansa begins. “Last night, she said you had trouble trusting your Father when he found you.” Obara narrows her eyes. “If you would agree to answer me, and I do not appear too rude to ask… I would like to know how you… trusted him. How long it took.”

_If he is truthful in his words._

Obara pauses for so long Sansa is sure she has offended her and she sucks at her lip nervously before opening her mouth to apologise-

“When my Father came to take me I was nearly a grown child." Obara tells her. "I had my home in the whore house where my Mother worked. I thought it was a good life. I had not been pressured into selling my body – although in time I am sure if any were willing I would have been put to work too. My Mother wept when my Father appeared, and he pointed to his spear he flung at my feet and my Mother’s face wet with tears and asked me to pick a weapon. I chose the spear, and he took me right there. I went with him, even though he was nothing but a stranger to me, because he promised me a better life then my Mother could ever provide, despite her love for me.” Obara sighs deeply, staring out across the training square still spotted with blood.

“She was dead within the year from drink. I grieved for a week or two, but it soon passed. Dorne is good to its inhabitants Sansa, from Princess to peasant Prince Doran and my Father make sure we are all as well as can be. They care. You asked me how long it took for me trust my Father… I trusted him as soon as I got off the ship into this kingdom, and saw all the opportunities I could take, the paths I could choose, and he gave that freedom to me. Not my Mother, nor anyone else. He was a stranger, but he gave me what felt like the world, and that’s when I knew I could trust him. Why would he take me in and make sure I was cared for, take me to a place he knew I would be free from harm and able to live however I wished just to take me away again?”

"A... a trick." Sansa guesses quietly, even though deep within her she finds herself unable to believe the words, when she looks into Obara's dark eyes so like her Father's, shining with bluntness. "False pretenses to make you seem safe-"

"If it were a trick, I have not witnessed the reveal yet, and I have been here nigh on six and ten years."  

The evidence keeps stacking up it seems, and Sansa nods before standing up and straightening her skirts. Obara is not even a pace behind her as she walks up the steps into the palace. Oberyn had told her she could take any book she wished whenever she wanted, and mayhaps she could take him up on his offer.  

 


	6. Chapter 6

Weeks slip past quicker than Sansa could believe when she first set sail to this southernmost kingdom, and although she receives no reply from her letters to Winterfell and Riverrun she rarely muses on it during the day for she is always too busy. Princess Arianne always invites her to some frolic or event – walking around the bustling streets of Sunspear before getting new dresses, heading to the beaches for pinics, saddling horses and riding for miles across the sand. Sleeping over in her chambers with other girls, listening to music played by handsome men whilst they played cyvasse or stitched. 

But as the days wore on she began to find herself irritated, a sensation deep within her that twinged with annoyance at the slightest thing, and when she woke one morning with a cramp in her belly she staggered to the privy and saw a red smudge in her pretty lace nightgown.

Her breath withers and dies and she stares unblinkingly at the stain. She automatically looks around for anything that can clean the mess but there's nothing, and her stomach curdles and contracts with a sharp twinge of pain. 

“Oh no.” She whispers, lip quivering. “No, no, no…”

“Lady Sansa?” Rhea knocks on the door and Sansa skitters away from her maid's voice, pressing her back against the cool marble of the wall opposite and breathing into the hands clamped over her mouth. No, no, no… This meant she could bear Oberyn's child, and even though through the weeks Oberyn has remained as cordial and courteous as ever, kind in fact, that does not stop the ever familiar terror leaping into her stomach and clawing, because maybe it was all a ruse after all to lull her into false security before he wedded and bedded her and got her with child. Her breath whistles past her shaking lips as she gulps in air in the privy suddenly too small, and she tugs at the frilly collar of her nightgown that is now  _ruined,_ and everyone will  _know-_

“Sansa?” A gentle voice on the other side of the thickset mahogany door, knuckles tapping softly. “It’s Arianne, and Ellaria. Are you alright?”

She shakes her head to the empty room, the scent of blood filling her nose, sharply aware of the sticky blood dripping from her- She chokes on a terrified sob, toes scrunching on the cold marble floor that sends chills up her spine. She wraps her arms around herself protectively, lips clamped together.

“It’s normal to be scared sweetling.” Ellaria’s voice soothes her now. “If you open the door we can help you.”

"There's no one else here." Arianne adds. "Just us." 

They  _know,_ everyone  _knows,_ and tears of embarassment well in Sansa's eyes. It takes a few more minutes of their coaxing for Sansa to settle down into a calmer state. When she slowly unfurls herself, clammy hands slapping against the tiles to pull her weak and aching body up her stomach twinges and her face twitches with distress. She walks stiffily to the door and fumbles at the lock with shaky hands, shame sweeping over her cheeks now burning hot.

When the door slowly creaks open she stands before them humiliated, shaky hands fisted into her ruined nightgown and eyes firmly on the floor. 

"There's no need to panic." Ellaria croons, glossy hair tumbling over one shoulder as she slowly moves towards her, hips softly swaying. Her red lips part as her fingers sort through strands of Sansa's hair, one long olive arm looped around Sansa's neck. 

"It's only natural." She continues, her soft voice enthralling and believable, and Sansa finds herself sniffing and nodding as Ellaria leads her to the table in her bedchambers and helps her sit down.

Arianne orders drinks as soon as possible from Zhoe who nods and skips off from her post outside the door. Sansa curls in on herself.

"Did your Mother ever explain what happened when your moonblood arrived?" Ellaria asks kindly, squeezing her left hand as Arianne yanks open Sansa's dresser and pulls out a dress.

"Rhea," The heiress to Dorne calls. "We shall need you in a moment." 

"My Mother told me." Sansa remembers, voice thick with tears she hastily sweeps away. "But I thought it would be different." 

"A nasty shock." Ellaria says with a commiserating nod. "I can recall my own flowering, as I am sure you can too Arianne."

"Of course." Arianne nods. "I wept for hours, my poor Father was more fearful than I at my womanhood." 

Sansa wasn't sure if she believed her, but she appreciated their attempts to comfort her and attempted to draw herself up taller, setting her shoulders.  

"Rhea will draw you a bath now before we wash your nightgown. Or... you may have another if you wish, it can easily be replaced." Arianne considers with a shrug. "Whichever you prefer. When your moonblood comes you need only use some cloth in your underclothes to stop the blood from staining your clothes." 

Sansa nods. 

"You may get cramps of the belly or feel faint or ill. You may want to eat a horse you're so hungry, or nothing at all, but it is all natural." Ellaria soothes, little finger trailing over Sansa's hand causing her to shiver. 

"If your symptoms cause you suffering my Uncle or Tyene can fix you a potion in no time to cease them." Arianne adds airily. "I have used them myself before." 

"I am sure Oberyn would be pleased to help you feel better." Ellaria nods firmly with a comforting smile. 

At his name all her previous fears begin to rise again and she nods even as tears wobble on her sticky salt-drenched eyelashes. Nausea rises in her throat and she swallows back an acid tinge in her mouth. 

"Wine to ease your shock." Arianne says. "That's all you need." She presses a kiss on Sansa's forehead and nods at Zhoe to place the platter before them. It contains three glasses of Dornish wine and Sansa gurgles out a wet laugh. 

"A toast to womanhood." Arianne declares and Sansa cannot help but smile despite the ordeal when the Princess of Dorne holds up her crystal flute of wine and downs it in one and wrinkles her nose.

"We must get better wine when Elia flowers."  

Sansa laughs, and smiles at the faces Arianne pulls in mock replusion, each more extreme then the last only for Sansa's well-being. 

When Rhea finishes filling her tub she sits in the cool water and washes the small spots of blood from her thighs with a sponge. Rhea bustles off with the ruined nightgown, but not before her fingers gently rest on Sansa's forearm and she whispers quietly that she'll be discreet in her washing. Tears of gratitude well but her maid is already gone, the door softly shutting behind her, and Arianne dicates Zhoe to find some spare rags for Sansa to wear in her undergarments. 

"You mustn't worry." Ellaria tells her afterwards, when Sansa is dressed in day clothes not a hair out of place. "Oberyn will not force a child upon you. I know, as we all do, that you may think that will happen when you marry but we care for you truly and gods know Oberyn does not want another child, at least not now." She smiles, touching Sansa's cheek tenderly. "And more importantly, he does not ever force himself upon a person who does not desire him." 

"I am heir to Dorne, and I 've had my moonblood for years, and I have no child." Arianne points out.

Ellaria smiles over the top of Sansa's head as she looks up. "Although not for lack of trying." 

"Not for a child Ellaria." Arianne teases, nudging Ellaria's shoulder as they laugh.

* * *

She avoids him like he has greyscale, lurking in corners, and whenever she sees even a glimpse of him, or an echo of his voice her feet are off, turning her onto a different path through the palace away, away, further away. She is embarassed to see him, for she knows he knows and _everyone_ knows, and she is terrified he might look at her differently, the kindness in his eyes that had always stayed slipping away. Obara pads after her silently, though Sansa can feel her accusing eyes on the small of her back and she is as taunt as a bowstring as she skulks in a half-hidden alcove that gazes upon the gardens of Sunspear. Prince Doran has told her the Water Gardens are prettier and more tranquil, and that someday soon she may like to accompany him to the place of relaxation. Less hustle and bustle, he had told her with a grimace as servants rushed around them. Sansa nestles into the small alcove, closing her eyes and leaning her head back on the sandy sun-burnt bricks of the palace, stomach stabbing softly. She bites down on her lip, trying to focus on nothing but the hot sun on her cheeks, almost burning the bridge of her nose.

"Father."  

Sansa's eyelids spring open and with a rustle of silks she sits upwards. She instantly regrets it, and pulls a face that must have been unseemly - Sansa isn't sure whether to be disgusted or pained or terrified and cycles through the emotions so rapidly Obara can only stare at her as she schools her face into calm placidity.   

"Prince Oberyn." She breathes, inhaling sharply through her nose and watery eyes avoiding his. 

"Princess Sansa." He says, and his voice is as warm and pleasant as ever. "I was looking for you."

"You were?" Her eyes flick to his warily and she wets her dry lips. "You found me."

"Indeed." He smiles and holds out a hand. "Might I show you something?" 

She casts her eye over to Obara in the hope she'll know what Oberyn has in store for her, but his eldest child shows no expression on her broad face. Sansa slips out of her hiding place and barely notices when Oberyn lowers his hand and waves her forward, the ruffled cuff of his sleeve flicking. He is dressed more Princely today, Sansa decides, because soon the palace would be filling with some of the highest Lords and Ladies of Dorne for her and Myrcella's welcoming feast. It's been weeks in the making, moons in the planning, and it is to be held at the end of the week - although people have already started arriving judging by the clamour below and Oberyn's outfit. Sansa hopes she hasn't seemed rude disappearing.  

"Where are we going?" 

"Do you like surprises?" He asks, and his excitment catches at her frayed nerves and she finds her insides shivering with anticipation, a mounting sensation creeping up within her that she had almost forgotten. 

"Not many of the surprises I've had have been good." Sansa admits with a twist of her lip, the memory of her Father looming in the front of her mind, the way his  _head-_

"This is." Oberyn promises as she shudders. "And better is yet to come." 

Sansa truly doubts this, but she follows him gamely all the same to his chambers, glancing behind her at Obara who is a constant shadow at her back,  _thank the Gods._ But maybe Obara was only here to stop her from running away, and Sansa almost freezes when Oberyn reaches his table, turns around and shoves a knife at her. 

Her mouth flutters wildly, but Oberyn seamlessly twists the knife to present her with the ornate hilt.   

"Part two." He announces proudly, urging her to take it. 

Sansa takes it with cautious fingers, questioning in her eyes. 

"To make you trust me." Her betrothed clarifies as she holds the knife in one hand, clenched so tight it digs into the soft flesh of her palm. "You recall?" 

"Yes." She runs one finger down the flat silver blade, stroking the hilt patterned with swirls of glittering black and smoky grey crystals. She can see the Dornish influence in its almost over the top ornateness, the gems and jewels that would never be on a Northern blade whether it be dagger or greatsword. She can see the Northern roots too - the grey and white colour scheme on the off-white bone of an animal where someone has carved out an _S._   The knife itself is a beautiful colour, smoky grey steel with a distinctive pattern swirled in white. Valyrian steel is  _rare,_ and he has so clearly gone to the trouble of modelling it after her own house, House Stark. 

"Valyrian." She breathes, limpid eyes swivelling up to meet his astonished. "How did you-"

"It is rare but not extinct. It is costly, but it is the best." Oberyn shrugs. "Do you like it?" 

She nods, head bobbing up and down firmly. "It's beautiful." 

"And yours entirely. You can keep it on you always, so if in the rare event I or Obara or anyone else fails to keep you safe you have your own protection."

"You bought this for me." She says weakly. "I- _thank you._ I can't-"

"You can and you will. I had it made for you Sansa. _You,_ Sansa Stark." He places a hand ever so delicately on her shoulder and she doesn't flinch away, cradling the knife between her two palms. "It is for your use and no others, and you needn't thank me. A Prince can buy his betrothed gifts can he not?" 

"A Prince can do what he wants." Sansa whispers.

 "Exactly." Oberyn's lips tilt up into a smile, and he is nearly always smiling at her, shooting a grin her way when they pass in public or private, and she has come to like his smile. Think fondly of it almost, for she realises then that his smile hasn't changed with the knowledge that she can bear him children. Sansa can feel herself slipping into the orbit of this man, this Prince, and for the first time her resistance is only slightly feeble. It is foolish to hope, but maybe, just maybe... 

She has a knife now, a knife he gave her, and now if he ever's- if he _does-_ she can stop him. Of course, she would die for attacking a Prince and her betrothed, but she had watched her Father die for less, and if she could see him just  _one more time-_  

"Are you alright? You look pale."

She stares at him mortified even as her stomach clenches. "I'm fine."

"I can make you a potion if your stomach hurts. I studied at the Citadel, I can whip one up in no time." He smiles encouragingly at her, looking for all the world like a little boy in his eagerness, his shining eyes, and he looks like he wants to take her pain away, but how can Sansa explain that she is always pained now, that the world is a painful place, and she had learnt a long time ago to deal with it?

"If you wish to make me one, I would not stop you." She answers delicately, hand gripping onto Obara's solid arm as she gingerly sits on Oberyn's chaise. "You-" She talks only to stop the pain. At least that's what she tells herself. "If I may ask, what did you study at the Citadel? I thought once you were a Maester."

"Ahh I had many a good day there Sansa." Prince Oberyn winks at her roughishly over the bottles he tinkers with and Sansa blushes and looks at her lap. "But the Maester life just wasn't for I. I quit after a few years, although I earnt quite a few links and learnt plenty more. It's where I met Obara's Mother." 

Obara shifts beside Sansa and Sansa deftly jumps in.

"What did you study?"

"Medicine and healing of course." Prince Oberyn hums as he sprinkles some sort of herb into the mixture he stirs patiently, spoon clattering against the side of the small pot. "Herb craft too, as well as warcraft. History and astronomy, and of course Valyrian Steel for magic and other forms of occult. Did you know Valyrian steel is the rarest link to acquire? Other Maesters tend to look down on the men that study that path, but as you may tell I care not one whit about other people's opinions."

"My Maester at Winterfell, Maester Luwin he studied magic!"

"Then he is a very clever man." Oberyn compliments. 

"He wore a chain around his neck. Did you not make a chain?"

"Alas, the Maester life is not one I wished to follow. Deprive myself of Princely duties? I think not." He stirs the pot again and dips his finger in, tasting it and nodding approvement before pouring it into a glass.

A minty colour, dashed with other ingredients and Sansa's stomach turns when he passes it to her.She raises it to her lips anyway and swallows. It actually tastes good, refreshing, and she licks her lips when she's finished. 

"It will abate your stomach pains within the hour." Oberyn promises and Sansa can believe him, when she already feels more alert and refreshed, the fog that had crept into her mind dissipating. "I know I am a man, and your betrothed no less, but if you ever wish to talk to me of your problems I might remind you I have eight daughters, four of which are women and another who is rapidly approaching that age. If it helps... I am here."

"Thank you." 

"And you may think this changes things between us, but it changes nothing. Understand?" 

Sansa nods and changes the subject, mumuring awkwardly.  "You give me too much. Obara, my knife, this... I do not deserve any of it."

"Why not?" He asks, wiping clean the pot he'd used. "Have you killed anyone?" 

Her first instinct is to say no, never, but a deeper pull of her gut makes her lips clamp shut. Her  _Father,_ who had been pushed to the steps while Ice glinted in the sun, and when it cut- Had she killed her Father? She had appealed for Joffrey to have mercy, and all that had gotten him was his head chopped off. She had been an awful daughter, she had hated him because he disliked Joffrey and he wanted her and Arya to go home, and Sansa would give anything to be at home with Arya in the chilly wilderness again, with Father by her side. She had  _hated_ him truly, and gone to the Queen and felt so wicked, but she knew it did not truly matter for Father would see- Father did see, Sansa  _saw,_ the way his head had  _fallen-_ _  
_

"Sansa." 

"I killed my Father." She says hoarsely. "Joffrey cut off his head and made me  _look at it-_ " Her voice wavers. "And it was all because of  _me._ I told the King-" Her voice breaks on a sob and she turns her head away, hand reaching up to scrub at the tears that rise. "I asked him to have mercy and he said he did but he didn't and he cut off his head." 

"Sansa, look at me." Sansa stares at him silently, daring him to tell her she was right, because he didn't _see,_ he didn't  _know-_  Oberyn leans in towards her, his breath hot on her cheeks, hands hovering over hers, and there is fire in his eyes so easily stirred to emotion, his eyebrows low in steely resolve, a determination to prove her wrong.

"Listen to me. Y _ou_ did not swing the sword.  _You_ did not order his death. You did nothing except put your faith in the wrong person. You may blame yourself, but you are only a child Sansa." He sighs heavily, face pained. "You are only a child." He repeats, and Sansa hopes he believes those words and will keep his needs away from her. She doesn't open her mouth and remind him she is a woman now.

"How were you to know?" He counters. "That Joffrey would do what he did? No one knew. Especially not you, so you cannot blame yourself, you understand?" His hands rest on hers, stilling their shakiness, and his palms are warm and dry and solid, comfortingly still, impossibly large upon hers. "Do not blame yourself Sansa, because it will tear you apart." His eyes bore into hers, and strands of his hair are plastered to the side of his face, and he is so serious, so, so  _knowing,_ that Sansa cannot believe he has not experienced the same regret, his words are so filled with guilt. 

"It will tear you apart." 

They stare at each other for one long moment, shared grief throbbing in the air between them, an acknowledgement that bad things happen to good people and the ones left behind suffer most. Sansa inhales shakily, and her hands fumble with his, and he presses her knife tighter into her grasp.

"Use it." He says sternly. " _Promise me,_ Sansa. Use it when you need to, when you want to. I don't doubt you have the instincts to know when you're in trouble." 

"I can't go stabbing people." The idea is ludicrous. 

"You're a Princess of Dorne, of the North. People will not care. You're more powerful then you think you are." 

"I don't want to be. I don't want to be powerful, I just want to-" She doesn't know what she wants. Peace, love, her Mother. Her family back together again at Winterfell, like everything that has happened since they left was nothing but a bad dream, a shadow of a bad thought in the corners of Sansa's brain. 

She sighs. 

"Feel safe. Have fun. Feast. You want to feast with all the Lords and Ladies of Dorne and dazzle them with your skillful dancing and knowledge of the harp." Oberyn stands up and straightens his silks with another of his smiles. "They'll be sure to love you, just like you've enchanted everyone here. I believe Lady Larra Blackmont and her daughter Jynessa have arrived early and are settling in."

Sansa stands, still clinging limply to her knife. "Then we should greet them and offer our welcome." 

She tucks the knife down the sleeve of her dress, and they sweep out of his chambers with Obara trailing behind them, heads held high.


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa stares dumbly at her betrothed.

He had knocked on her chambers in the early hours of the morning, leaving Sansa's ladies Zhoe and Rhea to scurry about to clothe her as quick as possible. Then, when she'd emerged from her rooms breathless and already perspiring in the heat he proceeded to offer her his arm and make sure Obara and his sworn shield Daemon Sand followed them as they left the palace.

After this came a humid walk through the streets of Sunspear where Oberyn spoke gently but firmly to every man, woman and child that greeted him with lavish love and praise, his pace solid and unpressured, and he clearly knew the route well wherever they were going.

And now-

"Go on." Oberyn encourages, and Sansa already feels her eyes welling up with tears as she ventures forward and crouches down, and they are nothing more then big balls of wool yapping and jumping at her; pawing at her silks, mussing her hair and she giggles with delight as their tiny tongues lick at her outstretched hands. She is half buried amongst them all, and would gladly stay for hours playing with the puppies, but she restrains herself and stares up at Oberyn with a wide smile, breathless with delight.

"They're so cute!" She gushes, pushing a strand of hair behind one ear and gently disentangling her other hand from the hoard. "Thank you for bringing me to see them." 

Oberyn smiles handsomely and crouches down beside her, fingers curling into the coat of the nearest pup that nips at his fingers he deftly twists away. "Take as many as you wish."

"Take- you mean-"

"This litter of pups were born in Planky Town two moons ago. The rest will go on to live with the Orphans of the Greenblood, but I wanted you to have the first pick." 

Sansa automatically starts to protest and say she _can't,_ but Oberyn looks at her with a knowing glint in his eyes, so instead she stop the words and accepts gracefully. Sansa strokes the head of one the colour of coal absently.  

"I can have any of them?" 

"Yes. I heard you had a wolf once, and I thought you might want something to cuddle at night." Oberyn's eyes twinkle. "My third part of the plan. Every King and Lord of Winterfell once had a direwolf I read. A dog is not a wolf but you are not in the North so mayhaps these will serve?" 

Sansa stares at him for long moment, the way his eyes are bright and creased at the corners from his own joy in giving her surprises. Mute with gratitude she nods shakily, silently, breath hitching in her throat. He would spoil her, a girl ruined and stupid, spoil her with knives and guards and now  _dogs,_ and she thinks of Lady, the way Queen Cersei had demanded her head even though Lady had been  _good,_ and here is a Dornish Prince who would give her anything, give her everything and for what? To sweeten her attitude towards him? But no, for he has seemed to like her from the start. Just from the goodness within his heart then, and her heart throbs for Lady as she nods again. 

"Thank you." Her voice quivers but her words thick with emotion, and he blurs before her eyes as she blinks back hot tears. "You... you are too kind to me."

_Too kind for me._

He is trying to give back what she has lost - in a way; his family so kind and gentle, his lavish gifts to her she doesn't deserve, and Sansa could hug him right now, wrap her arms around his figure and squeeze in joy, in gratitude and she wants to sob for she cannot recall the last time someone has given her something for free from their own goodwill or even thought of her grief, and here in Dorne they give her dresses and guards and everything she could possibly want as if it is no big deal, nothing of consequence at all, and she doesn't deserve it. How does she deserve it? She saw her Father die, she had traitors blood- 

 _Stark_ blood, she had  _Stark_ blood, she was a Stark of Winterfell, and the puppies tongues lap at her fingers and their wet noses squirm into her palms and one crawls up her leg to shuffle into her lap. Dogs may be a poor substitute for Lady, for a direwolf the size of an elk, but their tiny bodies cute and warm and fluffy against hers are still good, and she can feel the threads of love that have been aching and tender ever since Lady died slowly poke and prod at her again to inhale their scent, of straw and milk and dust, and feel their thick curls and floppy ears and tender paws, and she already feels an instant connection as they bound over her, on her, and she cannot stop the broad smile spreading across her face and staying until her cheeks ache. 

"Take as much time as you want." Oberyn slowly stands back up again, sauntering over to the owner of the pups who stands awestruck - and perhaps he were more shocked then Sansa that the Prince of Dorne would arrive at his door in the early hours of a normal day. "Pick whichever your heart desires. I have plenty money and space for all if you wish." 

"I can't have them all!" Sansa says, and her voice wobbles on a laugh at the image of the pack of dogs running the halls of the palace. "You would be overrun, and I would be taking away from people who have been eagerly awaiting one." 

Oberyn stares at her for a long moment, before a soft smile unfurls on his lips and he ushers the others out.  

She sits for a long time in the seller's backroom, getting lost in curls and tiny eyes and wagging tails. There's ten of them, coloured black and brown and beige, and Sansa agonises over the decision as minutes slip by. A small brown one catches her eyes as it wriggles into her lap and won't leave, twisting onto its back for her to rub its stomach. She's so cute, with long eyelashes and big eyes and Sansa feels a twinge of guilt accompanies the flutter of love when she recalls Lady as a pup, snuffling up close to her-

When Oberyn returns a while later, Sansa is sure she stinks but she cradles two puppies in her arms and stares up at him bold with love. 

"You said I could have as many as I wanted, and I was going to have one truly, but the little black one wouldn't leave me alone and kept yapping and playing and-"

Oberyn chuckles softly and helps her up, patting the head of the dogs pushed against her chest. "Companions, so they will not be lonely and miss their mistress when she is away. A perfect and wise choice."

Sansa's cheeks turn pink, for he always compliments her so when she truly does not deserve it, and she buries her face in the fur of the puppies-  _her_ pups now, feeling the soft fur against her cheeks, their snuffling and squeaking making the grin permanant on her face.

"What about your daughters?" Sansa voices as Oberyn pays the seller thrice what he would get from anyone else for the trouble of bringing the pups to Sunspear just for Sansa to choose before selling the rest. "Won't they be jealous?" 

"My daughters have plenty and more. The elder four won't care, and Elia gets a new horse every few years. Obella, Dorea and Loreza have morning stars and jewellery and everything else they want, and I am sure you won't be selfish and keep the dogs soley for yourself."

"You know me quite well." Sansa murmurs in agreement. 

The walk back to Sunspear is slower, with Oberyn taking the time to talk to winesellers and merchants and everyone who calls his name while Sansa coos and fusses over her babies.

She falls into pace with Oberyn's handsome squire, who paces silently by her side with his hand always on his sword hilt, sandy blonde hair flopping in front of his eyes. 

"They shall need names." He tells her as he gently pulls the black pup back from where it began to eat her hair. Sansa looks up at the man gratefully, and he looks so funny stroking a tiny pup she smiles.

"What do you suggest Ser?" She asks politely. 

"They are not my pups." Daemon shrugs, and the motion causes a strand of hair to fall into his bright eyes he flicks away with annoyance. "I could not say."

Sansa has barely spoken more then a few words with her betrothed's squire, but she gets the impression he is a kind, good man to make her husband to be like him so and raise his rank so high. He is handsome, with the cutest dimples when he smiles, but quiet and thoughtful too, sometimes so quiet he merely just a figure by Oberyn's side who mulls his thoughts carefully before wording them, and Sansa feels a tenous link of future friendship between them for it. She recalls that first night with Arianne and her family, when Elia said Arianne had given her maidenhead to this man and she can see why, if his courteous and thoughtful personality is true and extends to his lovers. 

"Has Princess Arianne ever had any pets?" Sansa asks. 

"Aye Princess." Daemon nods and Sansa watches him closely as he shadows her down an alley Oberyn walks confidently through, winking at a whore that entreats him to enter her pillowhouse. His hand hovers above her arms, and she wonders if he gripped her whether it would hurt - she somehow thinks not, and if it did he would apologise profusely; Sansa doubts her husband to be would hire a man that would harm girls to be around his children. 

"She once had one of those talking birds from the Summer Isles gifted to her by a captain wanting to gain Dornish trade. It was a lively thing and beautifully coloured, and would sit for hours chattering the same words to her. It drove her mad." He chuckles. 

"What happened to it?" 

"She entreated the captain to take it back with him, but of course she had taught it words herself by then." He smiles, eyes misty with memories. "No doubt the captain was as annoyed as she, but he were stuck in the midst of the sea with it." 

Sansa laughs at the idea. "What did she teach it to say?" 

"All sorts. Crude things, most like. I taught it-" He breaks off swiftly. "It would say many mens names."

Sansa would wager his name were the first Arianne taught, for surely he must be dear for her. Here girls had the freedom to give their maidenhead without consequences, so surely Arianne must have loved Daemon to give it to him freely without force. Sansa believes if she ever gave her maidenhead to a man for love she would not forget them in a hurry, or forget what must be a magical experience. 

"Well I am glad my dogs cannot talk." Sansa says, staring at the bundles within her arms lovingly. "Who knows what they think?" 

* * *

The welcoming feast for her and Myrcella's arrival in Dorne hovers in the distance; only a few hours before Zhoe and Rhea will get her ready in a new dress to talk to the nobles of Dorne as they swear fealty to her and Myrcella as their new Princesses and toast her impending marriage to Oberyn - the date which will be announced at the very feast culminating the evening after the dancing and frolics. 

Sansa lies lazily in her chambers where she had walked to straight after they'd arrived back at the Palace. She is a selfish thing today, wanting to hoard her pets to herself and admire their clumsiness, the way they tumble over each other to lick her chin, stuff their noses under her arms, their warm bodies pressed against hers. 

"You will not replace Lady." She tells them, staring into their beady liquid eyes. "But I shall love you dearly and try to heal the hole in my heart she gave me." She presses a kiss on the ruffled fur of the black one who squirms and bats her paw at her sleepily and she giggles. 

Oberyn drifts to her chambers a while later and says nothing but stares at her sprawled on her bed with the puppies asleep on her lap, curled amongst her furs. 

"Have you names yet?" His exaggerated whisper rolls across the room and she smiles hesitantly at his foolishness around the pups who seem to bring out his soft side - his  _softer_ side.

"I did... I did have one idea." She begins. "But it is silly and half-formed. I will pick names soon though."

"I love all ideas, especially those silly and half-formed." Oberyn smiles encouragingly, waving a hand at her from where he stands idly in the doorway, hip pressed against the thick frame. "If you wish to tell me, I will listen." 

Sansa nods, eyes darting down to her lap where the puppies lay curled together. 

"Stark." She blurts. "And Tully. For my Father, and you mentioned the Greenblood and I thought water and of my Mother, and then- forgive me, it is a stupid idea."

"Your ideas are not stupid Sansa, not ever. Stark and Tully are fine, noble names indeed. They are perfect, and they are yours. You are a Stark and a Tully both, and now you can carry those names with you always. A grand idea, very clever and I'm sure much appreciated by your family." 

Sansa flushes and looks down at her lap where Tully sits curled up, her teak curls fluffed up between Sansa's fingers.

"You give me too much praise Prince Oberyn." Sansa says. "You give me too much of everything. My knife, your daughter as my shield, dresses and dogs... why do you spoil me so? I am not worthy of so many gifts."

"Well  _I_ seem to think so, and I don't think you would dare deny a Prince from doing what he wants?"

"Not ever." Sansa whispers, her mind goes to tonight's feast where Prince Doran will announce the date of their wedding, and the inevitable bedding after. "Even if- even if I disliked it I would understand why... why he would do such things."

"A Prince aims to make every person he knows happy." Oberyn murmurs, and the look in his eyes is so intense it makes Sansa's breath catch in her throat, her eyes pinned on his, and if somewhere were to interrupt them now she would act a startled fool she knows. "Are you happy Sansa?" 

She nods, and it is not a lie - at least not mostly. Her family are far away and her Father is dead, and the beatings Joffrey gave her will forever be etched into her memories but the flesh he commanded be bloodied and bruised has long since healed. She is surrounded by knives and dogs with teeth and claws, spears and a man who is rumoured to poison, and mayhaps his plan he worked so hard on is working somewhat. With every day that slips by with no violence towards her she grows an inch more accostumed, and perhaps one day that will be a dear mistake, but she has to have faith in her own self now. She has survived Kings Landing, and surely the Dornish cannot be much worse - they do not have any of her family held hostage, will not cut off their heads and display them to her. They could ravage her own body true, but they could not harm anyone she loved. Not like King Joffrey, but Sansa is confident Robb will win. He never responded to her letter, but that is only because he is so busy fighting the Lannisters. And when he wins because he  _will,_ he can come to Dorne with Mother to visit and Sansa will be the happiest girl alive. 

* * *

Sansa greets all the Dornish nobles gracefully, and is careful to note their name and house and show she knows the inhabitants of Dorne - not well, not yet, but enough to show she is willing to learn. She compliments their clothes, for Dornish colours are ever so  _bright,_ robes of aquamarine and lime, dresses of scarlet silk and amber gossamer, plum satin and huge jewels and beads every shade under the sun. Ladies smell of spices and sweet perfume as they hug her lightly and kiss her cheeks, and the men talk of her brother sagely about how he is so young yet so famed already, and they tell her she is the sweetest Northern rose, and she smiles back and gives thanks for their praise. The feast hall is decked out with decorations of banners in the colours of House Stark, Baratheon and Martell all, and Sansa is clothed in grey and white and Myrcella in black and gold, and it is an explosion, a riot of colour as the Dornish dance and feast. Everything is so  _lively_ here, so unrestrained. Men sit between huge drums and pat out rhythms with their calloused hands, and the women dance with a bang and crash of sound - wooden jewellery clattering together, heavy gold chains and bracelets jangling, loose satin silk whipping through the air. The air is thick with heat - the bodies crammed together in the hall, the hotness of each dish they eat before them. They talk loudly, informally, chattering of nothing of importance to the very reason they came here before circling back to jabs and taunts and friendly banter. It is not like the court of nobles that gathered in Kings Landing where every word was thought of before letting loose and was usually a sly dig at another, and Sansa is immediately in love. Girls with caramel skin bedecked with glitter and feathers dance slowly, sultrily, long eyelashes fluttering, and men sit and charm snakes out of wicker baskets with nothing but small wooden instruments. Other men with flowing cloaks make coins disappear in front of Sansa's very eyes and she leans forward entranced - before she notices with a downturn of her mouth how they deceive her. Oberyn is by her side then, and distracts her with the introduction of the lovely Lady Valena Toland, heir of Ghost Hill, who was one of Arianne's dearest friends from across the kingdom.

"A fellow redhead." She grins wildly and greets Sansa with a kiss on her cheek, skin dappled jade and gold from the candle lights flickering behind patterned fabrics above them. "We must stick together my dear." 

"It would be my pleasure to know you more intimately." Sansa says politely. "Perhaps we may talk after the feast?" 

"Of course. Are you enjoying Dorne Lady Stark?"

"Dorne is nothing like I expected."

"Dorne always surprises." Valena agrees with a merry laugh before disappearing into the throng. Sansa spies Dorea and Loreza giggling, weaving in and out of the nobles who regard them with warm affection and laughs, and one even swoops down on Dorea to tickle her sides to her extreme surprise, which elicts a shrill shriek from her and peals of laughter from her sister. So very different from Kings Landing, so warm and loving and  _wild,_ and Sansa knows not which direction to turn-

"I must say Lady Sansa I am quite jealous you managed to snare our Oberyn."

Sansa turns to meet the next lady to introduce herself; and it seems that is all she does for a very long time. Prince Oberyn is popular, more so then Trystane, and Sansa tries to appear excited about all the wedding talk. Many ladies state their envy openly, but they smile warmly as they say so and throw looks of disappointment at Oberyn beside her, who always has some jest in reply that makes them smile. There is talk of her brother too of course, and her Father, and whispers of the great crime committed by the Lannisters go disguised by the sounds around them. 

Sansa is exhausted even before the feast begins, and there are fifteen courses for her to get through. She sits at the high table with Oberyn on her left and Ellaria on her right, and the Dornish around her do not react to a bastard sat in a place of high honour, even though when King Robert came to Winterfell Jon had to sit away from the rest of the family. Dornish people simply do not care, Sansa comes to the realisation as she sups strong Dornish wine, about anything. Anything except the Martell's, she amends when she sees how the Lords and Ladies cry in welcome to their Prince when Doran stands shakily, knuckles on his hands turning white as he grips the table edge and addresses the hall.

"My deep thanks, for all of you coming all this way to attend this feast in honour of our betrothals. The match between mine youngest son Trystane and Princess Myrcella Baratheon-"

Polite applause throughout the room, and Myrcella smiles unashamed at the attention she was so used to getting as Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. She is quite cheerful next to Trystane, positively glowing with contentness and she smiles and dimples at the nobles gathered, waving at them cutely from beneath her curls, gone wild from the humid air and the help of her ladies. 

"And the betrothal of my brother Oberyn and the Princess Sansa of House Stark. I am delighted to announce the wedding will take place two moons from today, and although we do not expect you to stay that long we thank you for travelling this far to celebrate their upcoming union."

Thunderous applause echoes around, and Sansa smiles and holds her head up firmly, chin high and neck steady. Sweat is slick on the back of her neck, and two moons is not a long time, not long at all, but she shall think of that later for she can see Lord Trebor Jordayne nodding approvingly, and Lady Larra Blackmont's eyes glint with happiness, her dainty hands clapping together firmly and Sansa recalls when Oberyn introduced her earlier as a dear and lovely friend not aged a day since the moment they met to her great amusement. 

Prince Doran concludes the speech and bids the feast to begin, and as the servants begin to bring out dishes he turns to look at Sansa for a long moment.

"Something wrong, brother?" Oberyn asks amiably, pouring himself a glass of Dornish red, and one for Sansa after.  

"Sansa, if you may come to my solar on the morrow, I would wish to talk to you in private." 

Sansa nods nervously, pulling at the ruby around her throat before she is distracted by the first steaming dish before her - a hot bowl of pepper soup with chunks of fish inside, melted cheese on top. Next come the stuffed peppers which she adores, and a huge lobster shiny with butter, and rice on wide leaves with dainty sauces and shells from the sea that Oberyn has to instruct her on how to eat properly. So many courses she looses track, and the laces on her dress are bulging and Sansa must get her maids to tie her more loosely next time. Sansa slowly chews at something sugar coated, watching Arianne talk and laugh and charm. She is truly in her element here, and Sansa thinks she will make a marvellous ruling Princess of Dorne one day. Clearly the people already love her, the way they call up to her at the table and she answers back with no haughtiness in her tone. 

Hours flit by fast, and Sansa is fuelled on by the wine she has consumed, the boisterous atmosphere around her. She runs around the dancefloor like a child after Elia and Dorea, panting breathlessly with her skirts askew. The drums thump in time with her heart, and faces flash around her a dizzingly swirl of colours. She darts around people giddily, the  huge windows cloaking them with the glitter of stars and the big moon above, and the music thrums in her brain and the wine turns her limbs languid, and she giggles as Nymeria seizes her hands and twirls her into a dance, shrieks when Jeyne and Jennelyn Fowler join in too, and they flash around too quickly for her and she spins away disoriented. 

"You have drunk too much." He is amused, twined around Ellaria in a hidden corner as she dances past. His hand is skirting Ellaria's thigh, and he is smirking at her with dark eyes, his face half obscured by shadows and he has never looked more attractive. 

"No." She shakes her head. "I am..." She wants to find the right word for it is important, and she hasn't felt this in so long. "I am..."

"Drunk!" Elia shrieks, appearing beside her out of nowhere and startling her so much Sansa jumps forward with a yelp. "You're drunk." Elia giggles, eyes glassy and Ellaria is not pleased when she takes in her eldest daughter, stumbling around with her hands threaded around a boy Sansa does not know. 

" _You_ are drunk, and you shall go to bed immediately. Where are your sisters?" 

"Don't know, don't care." Elia warbles and disappears into the dancers again. Sansa bites her lip to stop a slim smile on her lips, for Elia was mighty rude and unladylike but it were terribly funny- 

"Feel free to laugh at her Sansa, for I am sure everyone else does." Ellaria sighs, flicking a long lock of sooty hair out of her eyes. She is dressed most beautifully in a gown of flowing green silk lined with gold, and her eyes are smudged with coal or something similiar, flicking out at the ends and creating a sensual sharpness to her eyes.

"Excuse me, my love." She kisses Oberyn on the mouth with lips glistening scarlet for a few long seconds and Sansa stares at them, the way her tongue slips into his mouth and the way he groans when she extracts herself from him, and she knows soon she will feel his lips on hers and wonder if Ellaria will be jealous at all. Sansa watches Ellaria sashay away and she almost misses Oberyn patting Ellaria's vacant seat beside him. She walks up to him suddenly shy, and she perches beside him watching all the other nobles dance.   

"We should dance." Sansa says breathily. "They will want us to, they expect it. Can you dance?"  

She is already flushed from the wine, and she didn't mean to say her thoughts aloud-

Oberyn grins at her, and his rings dig into her fingers as she takes his offered hand, ornate rubies and garnets, sparkling amber set in beautifully intricate carved gold.  

It turns out Oberyn is a _wonderful_ dancer, and he spins her around softly, his hands warm on the small of her back. His long hair is tied back from his face with a scarlet ribbon and only emphasises his high cheekbones and strong nose, and when they sway under the canopy of lights he flashes gold and bronze and he has never looked more lovely. When the music changes rhythm Oberyn goes to step away but Sansa rushes forward and collides into him, face hitting the hard planes of his chest.

"Thank you." She says, voice muffled by his velvet doublet, hands curling into his hip for a long second before she trips backwards, cheeks flushed but she meets his soft gaze. They stare at each other for a long moment wordless, and Sansa clears her throat.

"I think your plan may work, one day."     

"Good." He says softly, with a smile curving on his lips. "How are Stark and Tully?"

"They were asleep on my bed when I left them." Sansa giggles, and Arianne appears beside Oberyn flushed and grinning, fluffed curls bigger then ever.  

"Are you having fun Uncle? Sansa?" 

"Oh yes." Sansa nods enthusiastically. "The evening has been marvellous Princess Arianne, the food was lovely, please compliment the cooks for me. And the entertainment..." Sansa shakes her head in disbelief, her tightly plaited hair swinging across her shoulders. "I have not seen anything like it."

"Wait until you see what I have planned for your wedding." Arianne says with relish, thick eyelashes fluttering. "I've spared no expenses. Dance with me, sweet sister?" 

Sansa obligingly takes Arianne's offered hand and she has never danced with a woman like this before, Arianne's body close to hers and their feet twisting slowly around the marble floor. Arianne sways her back and forth humming under her breath, and sweat coats her upper lip but she doesn't seem to care as she watches over Sansa's shoulder with interest, watching her planning enfold into a marvellous event giving joy to everyone in attendence. Prince Doran must be proud to have her as a daughter although he left hours ago wincing in pain as his guard Areo rolled him away discreetly.  

Arianne's fingers entwine with hers and she yawns, lazily turning them around again. Sansa's dress flutters around her ankles, and she spies Ser Daemon watching them in one corner.

"You should ask Daemon to dance." Sansa ventures. "I was talking to him earlier..."

"You were?" Arianne arches one thick eyebrow. "And what did the noble Ser say?"

"He talked of when you were children and-" 

"That was a long time ago." Arianne says flippantly. "Do you think a man of the Kingsguard would dance with a different Princess of Dorne?" 

Sansa follows her gaze to where Ser Arys uncomfortably twirls Myrcella around. He must be sweltering in his white armour but he persists in wearing it to every occassion open to people he has not encountered before. Sansa turns back to Arianne who is watching them with interest and debates whether to tell her of his actions against her in Kings Landing. He had beat her, but he had not wanted to truly and... well, he regrets what he did towards her Sansa can see it in his eyes, his words towards her on their way here. Perhaps she should just give her a small warning- even as Sansa works up the courage to say her thoughts Arianne has departed with a kiss planted on her cheek and is swanning towards them with a dainty wrist held aloft. 

Sansa turns away and grabs a flute of wine nearby, taking a gulp before plunging once more into the crowd to seek more laughter and fun, trying to erase the image of a beaten Arianne from her mind.  

* * *

She scoops Tully into her arms, staring down at Stark who yaps at her.

"You mustn't chew my hair ribbons." She tells him, but he only wags his tiny black tail and looks at her and how can she scold such a cute face? She sighs softly and scratches his head, cuddling Tully close to one shoulder as she makes her way to the door. 

"I shall have to train you as soon as possible." She determines as he bounds after her, claws scrabbling on the marble. 

"Are you leaving?" Rhea pops her head around the door that led to her maids quarters, strawberry blonde hair swishing. "Are you taking the dogs?" 

"I shall take Tully; Stark has been bad this morning."

Rhea swoops out gracefully, skirts fanning around her as she practically runs towards Sansa's pup whose entire body wriggles and runs around her chaise lounge. Sansa giggles as Rhea tries to capture him.

"I think Stark will take a bit more training." 

"I have no doubt he'll obey your every word soon." Rhea drops to the floor on her hands and knees. "He is merely in a strange, unfamiliar place aren't you?" She talks to the pup directly who bats one paw at her unamused. 

Sansa leaves them chasing each other, and makes her way to Prince Doran's solar stroking Tully's soft ears. She is soft and silent in her arms, nose nuzzled into her neck, and Sansa believes her to be half asleep when she is gestured into Prince Doran's rooms by his guards.

Areo Hotah stands shadowing him, and the Prince looks frail in the morning light behind his desk. Sansa knows for a fact the party went on until the early hours, some nobles falling asleep in the very room having to be ushered out by servants in a hurry to clean, and Sansa feels a wave of pity for him and how he must have laid awake unable to sleep for the noise. 

"Princess Sansa." Prince Doran greets, face twisted with pain. "Please, sit." 

She sits down uncertainly in a chair, legs clamped together, and Tully stirs against her neck in reaction to her tenseness, eyes fluttering open. Prince Doran's hands fumble with a piece of parchment, turning it over and over in the silence. Sansa's eyes flicker to Areo, to Doran.

"Is... is something wrong Prince Doran?" She ventures to ask, not sure if she wants the answer. Her skin prickles uncomfortably and Tully whines under her breath.

Prince Doran looks up to meet her eyes and there is sympathy pooling within them. "Lady Sansa I have some terrible news to give you I'm afraid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stark and Tully are Spanish Water Dogs, and I recommend looking up pictures because THEY ARE SO CUTE THEY'RE JUST BIG BALLS OF FLUFF. I chose them partly for the cuteness, but I also wanted a dog that would be appropriate for the climate in Dorne, and as Spain is the location in the show and a lot of the Dornish culture seems to be a mixture of various countries that have hot weather I picked a dog that realistically people in Dorne would most likely have - mostly amongst the Orphans of the Greenblood I'm guessing. Just wait until Sansa gets to the Water Gardens :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this has any mistakes I'm sorry it's half 4 in the morning and I can't sleep so here you go!

She walks back to her room barely able to hold back the tears and she bids Zhoe and Rhea to leave with the first already spilling down her cheeks. They send her looks of concern she barely notices, and when they close the door she fumbles with the heavy wooden bar across to make sure nobody interrupts her, and sinks to the floor gasping for breath. Theon,  _Theon,_ who had shared their home and was best friends with Robb, who had sometimes mistook for another brother tall and handsome and funny had killed Bran and Rickon he had  _killed_ them-

Her visions blurs, hot trails of tears falling over the hands she clamps to her mouth to cover her cries. Her brothers were gone forever, just like Father, little Bran and Rickon who was only a child, who had barely grown to love the world before he had been cruelly snatched from it, and Bran, she had sent him a letter full of hope for him to use a chair like Prince Doran’s… he would never get to use it now- She gasps hysterically, curling in on herself to get rid of the pain in her sternum, and her eyes are stinging, her throat sore and throbbing and she can’t breathe- She would never read stories to Bran again and see his eyes light up, or pick Rickon up and hug him tight, inhale that soft baby scent that still clung to him, and he was going to be a knight, Bran was to be a knight and Rickon was to be a sworn brother just like Uncle Benjen and they were going to grow taller then her so she would have to crane her neck to look up and muss their hair, and Bran was to have his  _chair-_

Her shoulders shake, and she muffles her moans in Tully's fur and she squeezes her tight because she was the only Tully with her and Bran and Rickon had the Tully look and her heart  _aches._ After a while her sobs subside, leaving her sticky faced and swollen eyed, eyelashes thick with salt and lips a bitten ruin, and oh what did it matter for Bran and Rickon were dead and they probably looked so much worse- she forces herself not to retch, for Prince Doran did not tell her how they died and that means it was  _bad,_  and she starts crying again. 

* * *

The sept in the Old Palace is a beautiful building, covered in ivy, and bright flowers that cling to the outer brick, creep over the sloped dome ceiling. Inside the perfumed building has statues of the Seven in hollowed out niches surrounded by candles; there are soft cushions to sit on and long Myrish carpets, but Sansa pays them no heed. 

She lights a candle for Bran and Rickon both with a shaky hand, watching the flame flicker in the dark. It smells so sweetly, of light spices that remind her not at all of home. 

She kneels down, sinking to the floor, knees scuffing the hard cold tiles as she closes her eyes tight. She can see them so clearly before her, the day she left Winterfell, how Rickon had grinned up at her with Shaggydog by his side, and Bran had looked so small and shrivelled asleep and she sees him like that now, the way she had whispered into his ear that she loved him and he were to wake up soon-

When she opens her eyes again, tears drip down her cheeks. The images were so vivid she could almost reach out her fingertips and touch them, and she wants to believe Prince Doran had lied to her but he saw the pity in his eyes, knew he couldn't possibly lie about something like this. 

“Lady will look after you.” She whispers. “I know it.”

She loses track of time, the perfume clinging to her nose as she prays, mouth wobbling noiselessly in silent mourning. She had thought foolishly that Dorne would make her happier, but it seems even the Martell's kindness cannot stop her suffering.  _Why, Theon, why?  They were only children, they would have done anything you asked, they loved you like a brother._ Sansa's heart aches, and she thinks of Lady and Father and Bran and Rickon and she squeezes her eyes shut once more, head bowed and losing herself in memories that are bittersweet. She shivers from the cold tiles beneath her, the heat of the candle fading away as it melts.

She falls asleep for a while, she must, for she wakes freezing cold with a crick in her neck and a growling stomach but she cannot summon the energy to move. Nobody is around to disturb her, and she lies one cheek on the marble floor feeling the heat leech from her. She is a woman of ice, forlorn and yielding to no emotion now. Numb, the ice turning inwards to her heart that throbs. She wants Mother, she wants her to smooth her hair back and whisper into her ear that all was not lost, and she wants Robb to swing her around like when she were a child, her giggles reaching the rafters, and she misses her sister too despite their arguments. She feels ill with longing, a tug deep within her to flee back home where everything was good and happy - except now home held only ghosts too. She sighs deeply, wet eyes gazing up at the ceiling above her. The glass above shines multicoloured, and she is awash in violet and crimson and gold, and she recalls when Father was on the stairs of the Great Sept, and she had been so full of hope... his legs had  _jerked,_ and Sansa stares languidly, numbly above at nothing, her brain too tired and weary and her eyes too sore to weep. Why must the Gods punish her so? She had done naught wrong, she is a good girl, she  _is._ Why do they hate her? Everyone hates her. Joffrey made the Kingsguard beat her and took her up to stare at Father's head, and she inhales sharply, tears blinking into existance once more. Theon has betrayed them and killed Bran and Rickon, and Robb will not come and rescue her, he does not care anymore, she is too far away and forgettable. And here in Dorne... she thought they liked her, and mayhaps they do but it is only a matter of time before they tire of her like the rest and it isn't fair for she is trying so hard, and Bran and Rickon never had the chance- 

A half-sob tears from her throat, and she gazes at the glass above that turns the light into a blur of colour, pale hands clasped together tight, nails digging into each palm and she appeals to the Gods to have mercy on her please, and Mother and Robb and Arya, and let Bran and Rickon rest in peace. She will try better, will let Oberyn do whatever he desires on their wedding night and after. She will not resist, she does everything she is told,  _please._

* * *

She drifts back to her chambers, encountering nobody in the corridors except the shadows of guards in the distance for it is the middle of the night, and has it been a day already? She is disoriented and aching after laying down for so long, and she stumbles and staggers dizzily to her chambers. Her maids are asleep in their room aside from hers, although she hears Zhoe rustle and Rhea lifts her head an inch off her pillow squinting when she walks past the open crack of their door. There are three platters of food laid on her table, Dornish eggs long gone cold and soggy bread, a thick curdled soup and pieces of fruit and nuts. She nibbles at a few berries, though they sit uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach and she gives up, falling onto her bed and tugging her covers over her without bothering to change out of her dress.

She hears a whine, the pitter patter of claws on the floor and twists her upper body off the side of the bed with a sigh to scoop up Stark and Tully who nudge her morosely, wet noses shoving into her palm. She rolls over onto one hip, and she commands herself to go to sleep, and tomorrow she will wake up and go pray in the Sept for her lost brothers again, and then she will get dressed and have a bath and greet all the nobles in the castle that still remain. She will not be puffy-eyed and quivering, she cannot show them she is weak for all of Dorne would devour her, their new Princess. She is to be the Red Viper's bride, she must be strong. 

Stark's tail wags as he shuffles up closer to her face, nestling in the crook of her neck, tiny face buried into her shoulder. Tully presses against her side, and Sansa's breath rasps and rattles in her aching throat as she strokes their hot bodies, alive and warm and loving, Stark's tongue licking her ear in comfort. She closes her eyes and wishes for sleep, but all she can see is Bran and Rickon before her, and their wolves and Lady amongst them, and Father overlooking them all proudly, and how can she sleep? How can she, when that is all Father and Bran and Rickon will ever do? She watches the curtains of her balcony billow in the breeze, and she remembers the stories of her youth, the Lady Ashara Dayne. She was Dornish, and she threw herself from a cliff into the sea when everyone she loved died. Sansa would throw herself over the balcony perhaps, but she lacks the energy to even get out of bed, her aching limbs chaining her down. Sansa feels like an old crone by the time a sliver of sunlight illuminates her room, skin puffy and lips cracked, eyes swollen and bloodshot, hair a dry mess. She presses her face further into her pillow and Stark snuffs into her ear, paws scrabbling at the tender skin of her neck sure to leave scratches.    

"Lady Sansa?" Rhea says timidly a while later, footsteps feather soft when she stops at the end of her bed. "Would you like us to draw you a bath?" 

"A nice one." Zhoe adds lightly. "With bubbles and oils and-"

"Yes." Sansa takes a deep breath and sits up, patting down her mussed hair. "And clean the plates with the food away please, they'll spoil and smell dreadful. I'd like to wear my new light yellow dress with the orange stitching."

She swings her legs over the side of her bed and stands up, fingers digging into the wooden post as her knees go weak. "If you could get me something to break my fast too; something light. Lemonwater and oats perhaps? With a bit of honey." 

"Of course." Rhea nods and Zhoe hurries down to the kitchens.

Sansa strokes Stark idly on her lap, and even manages to raise a small smile that quickly fades when Tully pounces towards her. She endures her bath and breaks her fast in near silence, thanking Rhea and Zhoe with a soft murmur before she leaves her chambers once more. She takes Stark with her, Tully laid sprawled on her bed asleep. 

The Septon is studying the Seven Pointed Star in a quiet corner, and barely lifts his head when she arrives and settles herself back down once more. Stark grumbles deep in his throat and trots around for a while sniffing before finally settling down onto his haunches beside her, licking at one black paw lightly. Sansa closes her eyes and prays to the Mother to have mercy on _her_ Mother, for she had already lost Father and now Bran and Rickon too and must be hurting even more than her. Sansa's heart goes out to her, and to all the other women who had lost children, and all the brothers and sisters who had lost cherished siblings...  

"Can I pray for them?" Her sweet voice flutters in Sansa's ear and she nods without opening her eyes.

She is so soft-spoken and quiet, her skirts barely rustling as she settles beside her, and one small hand touches Sansa's sympathetically. Sansa inhales shakily at the contact, a tear dripping off the end of her nose and onto her collarbone. 

"My Father grieves for you." Tyene whispers, and when Sansa slowly turns to meet her gaze her big blue eyes ooze consolation, brimming with unshed tears. "As do we all." 

"Thank you." Sansa breathes. "Although- you needn't. You did not know them, I do not expect..."

"You are family now." She says simply, lightly, the sunlight pouring down upon them turning even her individual eyelashes liquid gold. "They were family."  

Sansa nods slowly, brushing away the stubborn tears that linger in her eyes. Tyene starts a prayer, her sweet voice echoing around the Sept and although Sansa pays no attention to the words, engulfed in her own grief, she appreciates the sentiment. 

Tyene departs with a kiss pressed on Sansa's scalp after an hour or so. Sansa picks herself up a while after that, and Stark walks as if he is moulded into Sansa's very shadow, as if he is part of Sansa and she part of him, as if he knows his grief and understands the pain. He lost his siblings too, Sansa recalls, all except Tully. Just like her and Robb... She leans down to pick Stark up, press him against her chest and feel the beating of his tiny heart in tandem with hers, and he stuffs his nose in the pit of her arm with a huff and his tail whacks the side of her breast and she smothers a small smile in his fur. 

The courtyard is awash with activity, servants swarming like ants the number of them is so vast, lugging trunks to carriages and litters, donkeys piled with bagggage from nobles. Sansa watches and takes it all in with mild curiousity, and turns when her name is called with delight.

"You are here! Princess Arianne said you were ill and indisposed, but you still came to see us off how sweet!" Lady Jynessa, heir to Blackmont exclaims with delight, prancing towards her with arms aloft to hug her in welcome. "You are charming Lady Sansa, you needn't have inconvienced yourself on seeing us all off!" 

"It is my pleasure." Sansa says with a smile. "I must needs thank you in person for travelling all this distance to celebrate my upcoming nuptials to Prince Oberyn." 

"It was our pleasure Lady Sansa." Jynessa promises, and she sticks her neck back and hollers at her brother Perros that Lady Sansa is here and he is not to leave her waiting on him like a kitchen skivvy.

"I'm coming," He complains, bottom lip stuck out and feathered hair messy. "I was just- is that a puppy?" 

"His name is Stark. You may stroke him." Sansa invites, and the boy looks up at his elder sister who smirks down at him amused, long olive fingers tangling into his hair and sorting out the knots before nodding in consent. 

"Thank you Lady Sansa." He says and grins at her, eyes dancing as Stark regards him with mild interest, sniffing his palm and allowing Perros to pat his head, scratch his chin. 

"He likes that." Sansa giggles, forgetting herself. "Look at his tail."

Perros laughs along with her before his Mother arrives and shepards him ahead to mount his Sand Steed. Lady Larra Blackmont thanks Sansa with a breezy half-smile, and there is a frown on her face even before she turns away with displeasure to scold one of her household staff. When they have left, Perros and Jynessa waving to her behind their Mother's back as they ride out, Sansa is already conversing with Lord Dagos Manwoody, who tells her that he is Oberyn's most fiercest friend (the first she's ever heard of it) and will most definitely be attending their wedding, and he had just spoken with her husband-to-be in his personal chambers, and he drones on and on he cannot be moved until his sons hustle him away with knowing smiles at Sansa that makes her giggle. She skirts her way around Prince Doran who sits in a chair surrounded by pillows and blankets at the doorway of the Palace, bidding each noble goodbye with his blessing. She manages to avoid talking to Prince Oberyn too in the chaos of departure, who is charming Lady Nymella Toland as she steps back to mount her horse, batting him with her whip ever so slightly.

As the last of the nobles fade in the distance, Sansa herself has disappeared. She sits at her desk in her chambers, one bare foot tapping against a wooden leg of her desk as she attempts to compose a letter, a frown creasing her forehead.

_Dear Mother and Robb,_

What does she say? That she misses Bran and Rickon fiercely, and them too? That the preparations for her wedding are in place? Do they care? Do they even think of her at all in the midst of war? Surely they must not, for that would only serve to distract them. Does she write to tell them of Tully and Stark? Replacements for a wolf Robb still has, wolves that failed to protect Bran and Rickon. They would not care of such trivial matters, nor of Sansa's dresses and daggers. 

The day chases her and blankets her in the darkness of night too quickly, long stretches of time passing Sansa by in what seems like seconds, and she has to light a candle to peer at the small words written in her best handwriting on the parchment. She sighs and lowers her aching head onto the desk, tears beading in her eyes again that are always so quick to water these days. Tears of frustration, despair, grief, loneliness and longing and confusion. Her brothers were dead, but she was doing alright wasn't she? She told them whilst praying that she is going to live well, for them, for Bran would want her to fight and Rickon too. It is hard, oh so much harder then she ever dreamed though, but she was a stupid girl with stupid dreams then. Not anymore. 

Sansa presses her teeth down on her bottom lip delicately, slipping her cold feet into grand velvet slippers with lace ribbons she has to bend over to tie around her ankles. Her eyes dart over to the door through which Rhea and Zhoe lay awake or in slumber, she could not tell. Heart pounding in her chest, she creeps to her bed and stuffs the handsome knife Oberyn had given her and shoves it up the sleeve of her nightgown. She picks up a sleepy Tully too, and she dare not even breath when she slowly pulls her bedchamber door shut.

She traipses through the Old Palace in darkness once more, and the shadows seem to stick to her skin as she creeps to Oberyn's chambers with her breath quivering in her throat and her steps ever so delicate. She can hear giggles and talk from Princess Arianne's room as she flits past, recognises the voices of Tyene and several others who were Arianne's dearest friends. They fade the further away she walks, and the moonlight spills onto the marble floors before her and makes her feel like she is walking through pure silver, and she cannot hear Oberyn at all when she reaches his wing of the palace which is most unusual and perhaps this was just a foolish idea. 

She stares at the door and inhales sharply, knocking before she could spin around and flee like a child. He answers within a minute, and his hair is stuck up every which way and he is bleary-eyed, his bare chest showing through the unbuttoned half of his night robe and she shouldn't have come-

Her mouth wobbles uncertainly, an excuse and apology in her mind but longing and despair hovering between them, and he gazes at her astute as always even in his weariness before opening the door wider. 

She trails in self-consciously, and Tully peers over her shoulder and her tail tickles Sansa's hand when it wags in response to watching Oberyn. 

"Do you want a drink?" Oberyn hides a yawn behind a hand, padding softly towards her. His olive skin is rosy amber from the candlelight, and his dark hair glitters with threads of silver as he pours her some wine.

"You may sit, Sansa." He adds when she stays frozen in the spot in the middle of his chambers.

She lowers Tully to the floor who scampers off under Oberyn's bed, and Sansa sits hesitantly down on Oberyn's small sofa, sinking into the black plush cushions. Sansa swallows thickly, picking at the cuff of her nightdress awkwardly and hastily accepting the glass Oberyn offers her. He carefully eases himself down onto a chair next to her and takes a sip of wine. Sansa is unsure whether he is merely thirsty or expecting her to start talking, and takes a nervous gulp of her own drink in retaliation. His night robe is certainly as impressive as his day clothes. It is black damask silk with an intricate pattern of gold and orange suns and spears, a piece of lace around the cuffs and collar.  

"What did you feel like?" She finally asks, voice high-pitched and inquisitive, yearning to know. Her eyes flicker up to meet his, reassuringly patient towards her. "When- when Elia died?" 

She was unsure whether talking of Prince Oberyn's ill-fated sister might make him angry or upset with her, but he just gazes past her for a moment in reflection watching Tully sniff his bedsheets. 

"I was angry." He says, and he concentrates fully on her now as he whispers her secrets. "I was in denial - even though I knew it must be true, for why would someone lie about a horrible deed like that?" His tone is so light, so matter of fact, even as his words twist with dispair as they leave him and Sansa feels her own eyes welling up again. She wants to hold his hot calloused hand in hers and comfort him even though he has had years of comfort already. She wants to stop his pain, because it is unimaginable for a man such as Oberyn to behave as such and there is something so very, very wrong with a world that reduces people so enigmatic and  _alive_ into grieving shadows of what they once were. She will mourn Bran and Rickon until the end of her days, even after their memories have long left her, the soft scent of them, the quirk of their lips, the exact shade of blue in their eyes, the pitch of their childish giggles.

"I was heartbroken." His voice is husky with remembered grief, and Sansa stares down at her hands laced around the stem of her half-empty glass. 

"Mayhaps it was a good thing." She finally says, staring up at him with weary resignation. "That my brother's died. The world is a cruel place, and it had already punished Bran for no reason. If they had lived, they would suffer only more heartbreak, and I want to remember them as being happy."

She swallows. "Is... is that how you remember Elia?"

"I do. At least, I try to. It does no good to dwell on bad things."

How Sansa wishes she could be like him! How he sits even now, lounged in his chair barely clothed and half-asleep and yet still looking ever so princely, his head inclined towards hers as she watches him. He can live with the grief, and the pain, and Sansa needs to stop thinking about things that will never change.

"I always see my Father." She whispers into the air between them, dragging in a breath of the heady scent that permeated Oberyn's room. "Ser Ilyn Payne threw him to the ground like he was nothing, like he was just a doll, and he just- just cut his head like it was nothing." She finishes with a half gasp of pain, and mayhaps it is the cover of night that allows her to be less guarded around him, or the presence of Tully and the knife he gifted her up her sleeve, or maybe she was becoming comfortable around the man she is to marry.

"Perhaps that is better." Oberyn counters. "For you know, exactly what happened... I know not what lies Tywin Lannister has spread about what happened to my niece but they are all ghastly to be sure.  That Mountain man, Gregor Clegane, he raped my sister. He raped my sister while his hands were still slick with her child's blood and brains. I have no idea what happened to Rhaenys only that she died, and she was a little girl only aged four surrounded by evil, evil men." He takes a deep sobering breath. "Perhaps it is better to know then wonder, hmm?" 

"I know that... that it is hard for the people left behind." Sansa gazes at him, cheeks flushed hot from the wine and eyelids heavy from lack of sleep. "They are forever at peace, but we must suffer first to join them."

"I do not intend for you to suffer anymore Sansa." Oberyn's voice is thick, determined. "Not if I can help it. If I could turn back time and save your brothers I would."

Sansa is touched. Her eyelashes flutter rapidly as she murmurs a thank you, and she has no doubt when she looks in his face that he meant every word. 

"I would do the same for Elia."  Her voice rings with sincerity, or so she hopes, and when Oberyn goes to refill her wine glass again she slips her hand over his. His knuckles are bumpy in her palm, his skin is so warm to the touch and she is so desperate to stop his grief and hers that she curls her fingers into his hand and  _squeezes,_ tight. Their eyes meet once more and Sansa's stomach trembles, and after a minute Oberyn softly distangles his hand and presses his lips to the back of her hand in a gentle kiss. Sansa feels like her skin is burnt, their touch was so strong and heartfelt, and she stands up abruptly.

"I should go." Sansa says. "It's late and I'm tired."

"You should go," Oberyn agrees and narrows his eyes at her. "You do not get enough sleep." 

"I will." Sansa promises him, and Oberyn bends to pick up Tully. 

"Make sure she sleeps." He tells her and he is so serious, Tully yapping afterwards that Sansa cannot help but laugh. "Guard her well." 

He gives Tully to her gently, and she maouvers her so her chin rests on Tully's forehead. She is reluctant to leave; the room is so warm and cozy, the hallways so deserted and cold. She dare not sleep in the same room as him though even still, and she does not want to intrude or be any trouble so she leaves.

"Goodnight Oberyn." She says, casting a glance over her shoulder as she lingers in the doorway. He's walked back to his chair and is pouring another glass of wine, Dornish wine, strong wine. He looks up and smiles at her unsure gaze.

"Goodnight Sansa. Sweet dreams." 


	9. Chapter 9

"An orange blossom bouquet." Arianne nods from beside her as they stare at the man holding aloft the pale orange flowers.

Sansa's head is swimming from the heady fragrance despite the room being wide and open, and she shifts to one side of the sofa she sits on to further feel the heat of the sun on the back of her neck. The day is bright, albeit dusty, for there are wagons in the courtyard directly outside of the huge windows unloading all manner of things Sansa is quite forbidden to look at. Arianne says she has to keep _some_ of her wedding a surprise; Sansa is surprised she has been invited to nearly every meeting Arianne has held with winesellers and dressmakers and now florists. She didn't expect to be allowed to choose her own wedding dress design - it had to be made of silk to accomodate the hot weather, but Sansa is allowed to choose the option of having pearls or ribbons or lace or beads, as well as the colour of the jewels and stones sewn on. She didn't expect to choose what flowers she can hold when she walks to meet Oberyn in the sept either, and now she nods automatically at Arianne's suggestion. 

"They grow in the Water Gardens, it shan't be hard for us to have them sent here the day before." Arianne says, flicking a dark lock behind one shoulder as she leans forward to scoop them from the man and inhale deeply with a pleasured sigh. At the other side of the room Cedra make a meticilous note of Arianne's words. 

"And they'll compliment your eyes." Tyene adds from where she sits stitching nearby, golden needles flashing in the sunlight. "And match your hair beautifully."

"Thank you Tyene." Sansa smiles, and takes the bouqet Arianne hands her. The petals are soft and smooth across her cheeks, and Sansa's nose tingles when she takes a deep breath. 

"They're very nice." She says in a choked tone before sneezing. 

"Let us hope you do not do that before my Uncle says his vows." Arianne gently teases as she takes the flowers back and Sansa wipes her nose with the handkerchief Tyene daintily offers, cheeks red. 

"I do not believe I have seen my Father this excited for a long while." Tyene says airily, a smirk dancing across her lips as Sansa turns to look at her. 

"He is excited?" Her voice wobbles, and she hates the thoughts that automatically flood into her mind again at the word. Excited for the wedding- the _bedding?_ Excited to touch her as her husband? Or excited for the crowds of people that will see their vows? Excited for the whole feast and entertainment Arianne has organised? On her lap Tully whines and licks her still palm.  

"Very. He cannot wait to show off his beautiful bride to everyone." Arianne smiles and twines her arm around Sansa's neck, squeezes her shoulder. "Do you want to have a break now? I have lemon cakes on stand-by."

"You feed me too many." Sansa sighs, though she refuses none that they give her. "I shall get fat and never fit into my Wedding dress!"

"If one is fat, one only has more to hold onto." Nymeria says coyly as she sweeps into the room, lilac silks wafting around her ankles. Her long black hair fans out around her as she slinks down beside her sister, laying her head on her shoulder. "It smells dreadfully strong in here. Are you planning to smell of oranges forever?" She flicks a lock of Tyene's golden hair. 

"Just until after the Wedding." Arianne says cheerily, eyes sparkling. "I cannot wait for you to see what I have arranged, it is... magnificent."

"It must be." Nymeria notes. "How else can we irritate the Lannisters so?"

The cousins share a smirk, even as Sansa's insides tremble for she doesn't want to irritate the Lannister's. Her breath chokes in her suddenly tight chest and she thought she was getting better, controlling the mindless panic that descended upon her whenever nerves got the better of her. What did it matter if she fell apart in private, as long as everyone else believed her to be fine? It doesn't matter truly, but not here in front of everyone, not now surrounded by Wedding flowers and Sansa just wishes she were stronger, wishes she could forget Father's head rotting on the pike, wishes she could forget the flies that swarmed-

The scent of the flowers overwhelms her, head dizzy and mouth dry and she lurches upwards from her seat with a hasty apology. Tully scrambles up her chest at the sudden movement and Sansa hugs her tight, burying her face in her soft curls, her tongue licking her cheek and slowly she manages to relax. She is so foolish, and she hates and berates herself for acting so. She promises every morning when she wakes up today will be better, but still she fails and the feelings of grief and panic creep in again. Stupid, she was so stupid, Joffrey said so and the whole of Kings Landing said so and she's sure even all the men from her household that died thought so too for she didn't dare fight even though  _she would have died._

Maybe it would have been better to die. No. She remembers Bran and Rickon, her promise to them that she will live better, live well for they cannot, and she dries the tears that rose too quickly to catch on Tully's fur and takes a deep breath. She's fled to the back courtyard near the Sept, where the floor is hard packed concrete slabs dusted with sand and vines and ivy skirt the walls around. She can hear the waves crashing against the rocks below, and closes her eyes feeling the breeze on her cheeks, tasting the salt in the air. Her wedding is less then two weeks away, and she gently moves Tully to one side and uncrumples the letter she'd stuffed close to her heart hours earlier. 

_Dear Sansa,_

_My apologies my love, I have been absent from Riverrun as has your brother. He is fighting the Lannister's and has invaded the Crag, and I have been to treat Lord Renly and arrived back to my childhood home under house arrest for letting Jaime Lannister go in exchange for Arya. I only hope he delivers her to me safely._

_I am glad to know you are settling in well at your new home, I know Dorne is far from Winterfell but I know myself how long the leagues felt between Riverrun and Winterfell. I am at the place I grew up in, and I am sure when Robb turns back North you may be allowed to visit. As soon as we defeat the Lannister's once and for, and we can be a family again. I have heard many a tale of the Red Viper of Dorne and I suggest only to do your duty in whatever he decrees, just as I did once with your Father. Your wedding night will be uncomfortable, but with time I hope he will provide some of the love your Father gave me. I know it must be hard for you sweetling, to marry a man older even then I with eight bastard daughters and a fearsome reputation, but remember that the children you provide will be legitimate and come before them in everything._

_Your loving Mother,_

_Catelyn._

It makes Sansa ill to think of her Mother, oh poor Mother sat waiting for Arya who would never come. Mourning Father and Bran and Rickon, worrying for Robb, under  _arrest-_ and she would Sansa treat Obara, Nymeria, Tyene and all the sisters as coldly as she treated Jon? Make Oberyn feel bad for raising them and giving them opportunities they never would have had if he had not taken them? Sansa's stomach churns guiltily. Was she as cold as her Mother towards bastards? No, she had always been courteous to Jon for he is her half-brother, and the Sand Snakes although wild are fun and kind towards her. Why, she remembers giving Jon advice on how to charm a girl for even if did not become Lord of Winterfell Father might have granted him a holdfast and a second or third daughter of a bannerman. Aegon IV legitimised all of his bastards on his deathbed, and although Sansa knows Father would never have done that for Mother's fury Sansa knows he sees him as another son, just as she and all her siblings saw him as part of the family, just as Oberyn and Doran and Arianne see the Sand Snakes. She supposes Jon will never have a wife now he's joined the Night's Watch - but perhaps that was better, for if he were guarding the realm a girl might pose as a distraction. And - well Nymeria had many women and  _she_ could never marry them, mayhaps Jon could just do that. She wonders what Jon would say if he knew she was to marry Red Viper, for Jon always did love Dornish stories. She remembers when he and Robb played knights Jon always wanted to be Daeron I who invaded Dorne. And Arya would always barge in wanting to join, and a lump grows in Sansa's throat even as she smiles. 

"I like to see you smiling." 

Sansa looks up, letter falling from her fingers at Ellaria's voice. Her betrothed's paramour is watching her with a gentle smile from under the ivy-covered archway, and she slowly walks forward to pick up the parchment and hand it back. Her golden sandals ripple in the sunlight as she moves back and tries to tame her lustrous waves. 

"Thank you." Sansa murmurs.

"Might I?" She says softly, extending a hand to point beside her and Sansa nods and moves further up the bench.

"Of course."

Tully squirms excitedly on Sansa's lap as Sansa carefully folds the letter back up and slips it into the top of her corset for safe-keeping. She feels closer to her Mother somehow, with the parchment cool against Sansa's skin atop her heart. Ellaria sighs, jade stone bracelets on her arms jingling as she settles down beside her, pulling her sky blue skirts up and around her. Sansa has rarely spoken to Ellaria alone, only conversing with her as Oberyn's lover and the Sand Snakes Mother. She is nothing to Sansa, only another woman to talk to. She does not care Oberyn prefers her company to her own, in fact Sansa welcomes it. More time with Ellaria in bed means less with her, and Sansa would never dare to presume she could even try to destroy a fourteen year love affair if she even wanted to - which she doesn't. She sees so many people unhappily married but here in Dorne one can love whoever they wish without recurpussions and Sansa thinks it is so very lovely if unusual. When else would a bastard like Ellaria ever court a Prince? She's practically a Princess now.

"You want to talk to me?" Sansa asks, stroking Tully's ears who calms down instantly.  

"I was seeking to only reassure you Sansa." Ellaria says quietly, but her voice is strong and her eyes stare directly at hers. Soft, motherly, and Sansa feels a surge of warmth towards her. Her hand pats her ever so gently, slim fingers patting her soft knuckles.

"I do not mean to take Oberyn away from you." Sansa blurts before she can continue. "I would never come between two people in love."

"That is so very sweet." Ellaria's smile grows. "And I hope my daughters grow to be as wise and gentle as you." Her eyebrows pull together in distress and she leans in close. "Not as sad though. You _are_ happier, now? If there is anything I can do, or Oberyn or Arianne-"

"You all treat me well." Sansa murmurs. "Too well." 

"I doubt that." Ellaria says softly. "I think we can always treat you better. I came to tell you that if you ever wish to talk to me about your moonblood, or the act of bedding-" 

Sansa's stomach lurches. 

"Or any personal problems, I shall be here. I would have you think of me as a - a Motherly substitute, of sorts. Your own must desire a fellow Mother to look after her precious daughter hmm? I know in her situation I sorely would."

Ellaria smells of oranges and vanilla when she leans over to tuck a lock of hair behind Sansa's ear and Sansa looks up at her, blinking away tears of gratitude. When she had first heard Prince Oberyn had a paramour she had expected a fearsome woman that would cut her down and treat her ill for a circumstance Sansa had no control over. She didn't expect a woman who would mother her and soothe her worries. She shouldn't be surprised - Dorne has been like nothing she had thought from first disembarking the ship.  

"She sent me a letter." Sansa tells her. "About my wedding to Oberyn..."

"That is lovely to hear. I know she will be very concerned for you, but she needn't be. And neither should you." She captures Sansa's cheeks ever so delicately and Sansa flushes as her cool fingertips graze her cheekbones, eyes meeting. "Oberyn will take no liberties. I know you will not believe us until after - or even never, but he has no intent of doing anything you are not comfortable with."

"Everybody tells me that." Sansa admits. "And I try to believe, I do-"

"It is understandable after everything you've been through." Ellaria soothes. "But hopefully with this you will start to trust again. Ah. There is no need to apologise." Her tone is firm when Sansa opens her mouth. 

Sansa smiles foolishly, for they know her so well she fears she is an open book and all her hidden desires and hopes and worries can be seen just as easy. 

"She said- my children with him will be legitimate, but I don't care." She says, and heat gathers in her words the more she talks of it. "I don't care they're all bastards, I'm not like my Mother I have a bastard brother and I treated him just the same-"

"You are perfectly friendly to all my daughters and Oberyn's - even Elia who tests everyone's patience, which only shows how amazing you are." Ellaria lets out a laugh at the mention of her eldest daughter. 

"I am trying." Sansa tells her. "I promise. I know it will take a long while-"

"I think you are already better then when you arrived here. And you are stronger then you think." 

Sansa purses her lips in consideration of that, for she still gets panicky and fearful and she isn't strong like Arya, like Obara... perhaps she is just strong in her own way. A quiet unstated way. Ellaria's feathery eyelashes flutter as Sansa clutches her hand.

"Thank you." 

"It's my pleasure, always." Ellaria gently runs her fingers through her hair and Sansa automatically leans into her, recalling the times Mother did the exact same thing. Tears burn in her eyes and she sighs softly, rolling her head to rest on the crook of Ellaria's neck as she continues to smooth her hair, nails untangling the strands that threatened to knot. 

* * *

"I want to get married to Father." Loreza pouts as Sansa plaits her thick black locks, stiff with salt from the trip to the ocean she had been on earlier with Trystane and Myrcella. 

"You cannot marry Father." Elia rolls her eyes where she lounges sprawled nearby on the dusty ground beneath the shade of an orange tree, throwing one of the fruit in the air to catch in cupped hands. Almost all the Sand Snakes sit in the waning afternoon sun in wait for something of interest to walk their way. Nymeria tans herself, laid across a marble bench with a fan clutched limp in one hand lazily beating the air, one eyebrow arched in amusement at her siblings.

"Why?" Loreza whines. "I want him to cuddle me in bed all night." 

When Loreza had asked with all the innocence of a five year old what marriage was, and  _why_ was Father marrying Sansa and  _why_ were they having a big party and  _why_ couldn't Father tuck her into bed that night Ellaria had told her merely that it was a form of cuddling. Perhaps she is speaking the truth; Sansa isn't too sure what to expect with Oberyn.

"They don't cuddle Loree." Nymeria drawls. "They do something different."

"Oh." Loreza takes it in for a minute, nodding thoughtfully. Sansa watches Obella drag a stick through the dust and attempt to draw pictures. "What do-"

"Don't you want a different man? Father is dreadful boring isn't he, he never lets you stay up past bedtime like Tobee does."

"Then I want to marry Tobee." Loreza declares to their amusement.

Obara snorts brusquely from where she hovers near Sansa, and Obella tosses her stick aside with a huff. 

"I think Obella is bored." Sansa suggests lightly, finishing Loreza's plait. "Perhaps you could train her with her star?"

When Sansa had first seen the weapon in the little girl's hands she had cringed, at the heavy silver ball with the  _spikes_ alarmingly pointy as she swung it haphazardly through the air with a scowl plastered on her face looking remarkably like her elder half-sister. 

"Morning-star." Obara corrects and she nods before hesitating. "Do you want to accompany us or-?"

"I am fine here." Sansa smiles as Loreza hops up and runs across the courtyard kicking up a cloud of dust. "Go and have fun."  

"As you wish." 

Obara murmurs a quiet word to her sister and they depart to the training yard. Nymeria slips away talking of visiting the Fowler twins, and Sansa and Elia are left alone. Dusk will fall soon, and Elia's eyes flick to Sansa, eyebrows arching upwards in an unspoken challenge. To what, Sansa can only guess. She had thought Elia had come around to the idea of Sansa being married to her Father, but it appears as the date looms closer both of them can think of little else. 

"Elia." Sansa begins. 

"Sansa." She replies coolly, and Sansa's eyes follow the orange as it spirals high in the air once more at the flick of her wrist. When she catches it in her palms without looking Sansa shifts more in her direction and fixes her gaze on her. They are the same age, surely Elia will understand she has no desire to leap in bed with her Father and displace her Mother?

"I know you believe me to be intruding on your life. On your Mother, and Father especially." Sansa takes a deep breath. "But I did not ask for any of this. It was your Father-" 

"He only wants you to piss off the Lannister's."

"Exactly." Sansa says encouragingly. "I have no plans to bed your Father. I am too young and I do not want to compete with your Mother. As if I could do that." She shakes her head. Compete with a fourteen year relationship with four children involved? She would never try, as Ellaria knows - or she hopes now knows. If only she can convince Elia of the same!

"He'll piss the Lannister's off even more if he got you with child." Elia sniffs. 

"He loves your Mother and you Elia. He would never forget you or place you aside if I ever quickened with his child."

"He put aside Obara's Mother and Nymeria's and Tyene's and Sarella's." Elia's eyes sparkle with tears, an angry flush on her cheeks. "I know he loves Mother, he'll never not but you- you will never be anything to him. Mother and Father are as good as married everyone says so."

So she has switched to the defensive now, and though they are the same age Sansa believes her to be a little child. She has not experienced what Sansa has gone through, if she even knew- She throws the orange at her before she has time to react, and Sansa cannot help the laugh that falls from her lips as the fruit falls into her lap with perfect precision. She had known a girl once who had thrown an orange that had splattered against her forehead and ruined her dress, the thick juice running down her face. Elia stares at her confused, angry facade broken and Sansa places delicate hands on the bruised orange that had come so close to splitting. _Was history always doomed to repeat itself?_ She stares at Elia painfully.  

"I was betrothed to King Joffrey, before." 

"Before my Father, yes."

"Before he cut off my Father's head." Her fingers dig into the skin of the orange and the sharp scent spills into the air as her nails crack it open. 

Elia freezes, and blood orange juice drips on Sansa's fingers.  

"And even after that. When he took me up to see my Father's head _rotting,_ when he made me look at it and all of the people of my Household that I'd grown up with. My Septa who had taught me everything I knew, and the household guards who were sworn to protect me." Sansa inhales sharply, flinching at the memory. "I was betrothed to him when he dragged me before court and commanded the Kingsguard to hit me for my brother's doings. I was covered in bruises even though I was his wife to be. I was betrothed to him until it was broken for someone better and I was cast off to be a 'Dornish Whore.' He hit me then too, even worse then before. He was annoyed his play-thing was being taken away, you see." Anger rises in her and her dress is ruined by orange juice dribbling in her lap, sticking to her legs. Elia is silent, eyes showing the white around the edges and she hunches up defensively. 

"You do not realise what I have been through." Sansa says. "Do not presume I want to be married to your Father. Do not presume I want to steal him from your Mother and have his children to replace you. I want nothing of the sort." 

Silence rings too loudly between them, and Sansa clears her throat with embarrasment, peeling back the skin of the orange slowly with fingers that tremble. That was so foolish of her, how did she dare-

"I'm sorry." Elia says huskily, and her jaw unclenches. 

"I only want..." Sansa sighs. What did she want? She wanted the past year to have never happened, she wanted to be back home with Mother and Father and all her siblings. She wanted to laugh again and mean it and never deal with the worries and panic that plagues her now. She didn't want to be married with a husband. She just wanted to be  _Sansa Stark._  She was only thirteen, and how can she feel too old and too young to be married all at once? 

"I'm sorry." Elia repeats remorsefully. _"_ I didn't know, Father never said- I'm sorry." 

Sansa thrusts her hand out and Elia flinches back before she realises Sansa only holds a piece of the orange in her palm.

"I want us to be friends." Sansa says sincerely. "I can't bear anymore anger or- or distrust. Just - on my word as as Stark and- and as a soon to be  _Martell,_ believe me when I say I just want us to be friends and nothing more. Your Mother said to me earlier she sees me as just another daughter. Can we not be sisters? My only sister is dead." A lump rises in Sansa's throat. "And although we fought a lot we loved each other too." 

She takes a piece of the orange and pops it in her mouth, chewing it slowly and letting the taste spread across her tongue. Elia slowly takes one of the offered pieces and chews loudly, jaw working furiously as her eyebrows pull together in consideration. 

"I will buy you a new dress." 

Elia's words remind her so much of a girl with brown hair and grey eyes who always smelled of horses Sansa smiles through the tears in her eyes. In the quickly fading sunlight she can almost mistake her in the girl before her, except for her taller stature. 

"You needn't do that. But thank you."

It is a start to friendship, to family, and hopefully an end to their imagined rivalry altogether. 

"I do not want to bed your Father." Sansa murmurs as Elia sits down beside her, and she only just realises her breeches splattered with horse manure. She restrains from wrinkling her nose, and Elia scratches her scalp.

"I would not even know how."

A giggle slips from Elia's mouth before she can contain it and Sansa smiles ruefully as Elia swings her head around to look at her amazed. 

"Well do _you?_ "

Elia's laugh morphs into a fully blown cackle as she shakes her head and Sansa can't help laughing with her, mouth sticky with orange. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wedding is next chapter! :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wedding Part I

She's getting married in the morning.

This time tomorrow she will be secluded in a room with Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, and she will be a Stark no longer. She will wake up before the sun and walk from the Sept of Sunspear covered in a cloak of red and orange and by the time it sets she will be a married woman. This time tomorrow, she will be sharing a bed, a hot and heavy body beside her, and she curls up into herself with an anxious breath. She will have to be naked before him, and she has been naked to many others when at court in Kings Landing but not in such an intimate way, with his eyes taking in every inch of her... She wonders if her Mother had similiar thoughts when she married Father. She must have, for Father was a solemn stranger to her when they got married. Mother had been betrothed to Uncle Brandon of course, so she'd never even seen her husband before her wedding day. She should take comfort in that, but she's finding it hard to find comfort in anything. 

She had travelled with her maids hours earlier across Sunspear to the Sandship, a small oddly-shaped dun coloured building that used to be the Martell's main keep before Nymeria and Mors Martell decided to build a huge palace of their own to house their descendants. Now the Sandship was little more then a thinly armed keep filled with nothing but weapons on the first floor and relics of older Martell's everywhere else. She knew sometimes the Sand Snakes or Arianne spent time here when they desired a change of pace from the Old Palace, and Trystane had taken Myrcella around the other day when they'd heard Sansa was to stay the night before the wedding. Trystane had told her with serious eyes that it was haunted by the ghost of Nymeria and Mors, the founders of House Martell, and they came to people in the night with sage advice. 

Sansa has seen no ghosts so far, and she has not slept a second. She cannot sleep, her bedchamber too hot, her mind too frenzied. Her bedsheets are clammy with sweat and kicked half off the bed as she twists and turns restlessly, lip a bitten ruin and she will look awful in the morning with her bloodshot eyes with the dark circles underneath... Hours slip by too quickly, and she's doing everything  _except_ sleeping - pacing her room back and forth, toying with Tully and Stark who are always eager to play despite their drowsiness, whispering to them all her fears and hopes and dreams. She falls onto her bed wishing sleep would claim her, but the chatter in her brain is too loud and overwhelming, and she moans restlessly, burrowing her head in her arms. She wishes she were back at Winterfell, wishes Robb and Mother were here to comfort her, to tell her all will be well, for she is a Stark and must be brave.

Not a Stark tomorrow though. 

She's getting married in the morning.

* * *

She slides further down into the bath. It's warm, the steam licking her face and making her vision blur, but she is to have a cold bath after, and then  _another_ to wash her hair and lather her skin with sweet scenting soap. Only after that she is to get dressed into expensive smallclothes that are already laid on the bed ready, and her eyes flick over to the sheer silks with a mounting dread and she slides her head under the water blocking out the hustle and bustle around her. Childish perhaps, certainly petty, but she will be a child no longer when the day is through and she must take every opportunity presented to behave so. The world underwater is a much less threatening place, and her breath turn to little bubbles as her fingers drag through the hot water and she closes her heavy eyelids tiredly. She wonders if she were to fall asleep now and drown what would happen. Would Prince Oberyn be sad? Or delighted that at the last minute his wedding was cancelled? He is middle aged and never married, of course he does not desire this. He desires her though she is sure of it, and a few tears mingle with the bathwater as she reamerges coughing and spluttering, water up her nose and throat burning. 

Zhoe laughs as Rhea asks her politely if she wants to be out, and Sansa nods and takes her ladies offered hand as she stands. Zhoe drapes a towel over her bare body as Rhea empties the tub and begins to re-fill it with various oils and lotions. She breaks her fast in between baths, picking at berries and stirring her spoon around a bowl of boiled oats and honey listlessly for her stomach is wound so tight with nerves she can barely breathe never mind eat. Arianne arrives when she's on her final bath, sweeping into the room and demanding she eat the huge chunks of bread slathered with honey and jam. She ends up eating whilst in the tub, crumbs floating on the soapy surface.

"You need to keep your strength up, you have a long day ahead of you." Arianne tells her as she passes Sansa's empty plate to Cedra who hovers behind her. "I have many things planned." 

Sansa's eyes wander back to the silks on her bed again. Her chamber in the Sandship is the room reserved for the ruling Prince or Princess of Dorne, and the huge four poster bed she had laid in the night before was chiselled with golden suns and spears and ships on each post. It is a story in itself, for the pictures carved in were the history of Dorne, and Martells were most likely conceived in the very bed- Sansa stops that thought with a shudder and Rhea apologises as she sponges her back, the hot suds running down her spine. 

The Sandship is a lonely place, but it need only to be renovated a bit for it to be fit for daily use again. Sansa believes with good cleaners and a few decorations it could look even more beautiful, yet still keeping the ancient style it was famous for. It is smaller than the Old Palace and not as grand, tucked away, a small oasis amongst the always active Sunspear, and Sansa is in love with the crumbling stone steps, the cracked tiles beneath her feet, the pretty stained glass windows and small courtyard with the glittering pond and exotic coloured vines. She would gladly stay here forever - she doesn't want to leave. She doesn't want to go back to the Old Palace and marry Oberyn. She doesn't want to travel across Sunspear to allow all the folks to see her. She just wants to  _sleep._

"Who else is here?" Sansa asks, sticking one leg up to allow Zhoe to wash and lather her with vanilla oil. Her fingers massage her skin with small round circles, and it relaxes Sansa inch by inch, the tenseness in her limbs slowly fading - for now. 

"Princess Myrcella and my brother Trystane are getting ready to ride in the carriage behind you." Arianne tells her as she takes a sip of wine and offers the goblet to Sansa who shakes her head. "Ellaria and my cousins wait for your arrival in the palace. The arrangements all seem to be in order. Hopefully it will all go smoothly. The whole of Dorne look to me to make this a success." Her face gains a determined air, eyebrows pulling together before she hops up and strides out of the door to check everything is in place again.

Princess Arianne worries too much for her, for Sansa truly doesn't care how grand the wedding is. She doesn't want a huge wedding where every guest in attendance gushes and the praise reaches King Joffrey's ears. She would be content to just say the vows with her and Oberyn, Ellaria, Doran and Arianne in attendance. She would be even happier if there were no wedding at all. 

Sansa's head lolls forward as Zhoe massages her neck, and Rhea scrubs at her nails, and Sansa thinks of Mother so far away, of Robb who was older then her and was still unmarried, of Bran and Rickon who would never be married. They would never have to face their fears for they were dead and gone, and Sansa's eyes glimmer with tears. When she was to be married  _before,_ Bran and Rickon were to have been dressed up like Father and stuck by her like shadows, seated nearby her with the rest of her family-

She inhales shakily and wipes the wetness off her cheeks puffed up and sweaty from the heat. Her hair sticks to her forehead, and her lips taste of salt, and she almost swoons when they help her out of the tub she is so warm. 

"The nerves." Rhea clucks her tongue sympathetically, helping to towel her dry with soft strokes of the cotton, dabbing lemon scented perfume on her body.

Zhoe hums to herself as she picks up Sansa's smallclothes and kneels down, helping to pull them up. The silk is so thin and sheer there is hardly a point to wearing them, but the fabric is blissfully cool against Sansa's damp skin, rosy from the bathwater. She is ushered into a chair while Zhoe does her hair, chattering on as she tugs and pulls at her roots, forcing the strands into intricate plaits. Rhea brushes her face with a white powder that goes straight up Sansa's nose, rings her eyes with kohl and swipes gloss on her lips. Sticky and sweet, and Sansa's lips smack together and peel apart gooey as Arianne re-enters holding a huge dress aloft.

Sansa's eyes widen and her jaw drops, for that was definitely not the dress she had evisioned when timidly telling the dressmaker what she desired. No, this dress was all that and more. _So much more._ Swathes of grey and white silk, freshwater pearls at the bottom clattering together as the fabric swished. Stitched flowers with tiny beads in every centre spiralled down the loose sleeves attached by glittering grey jewels at the shoulder. 

"Do you like it?" Arianne beams and Sansa nods wordlessly, fingers gently reaching out to touch the tiny perfect stitching, and every stitch was magnificent, beyond anything Sansa had imagined. 

"Well let's try it on!" 

Sansa stands with shaky knees, sucking her stomach in as Rhea and Zhoe manouver her into the dress. Cream ribbons criss-cross the back in a loose corset of sorts, flowing down her back and behind her as it shifts into a trailing train that glitters and shines from the beads.  

"And the shoes." Zhoe coos with delight, picking one of Sansa's feet up. She wobbles, catching hold of Rhea's shoulder as her foot slides into feather-light slippers. Cream coloured, with a buckle of grey beads set off with a jewel in the centre, and Sansa twists her foot side to side admiringly. 

"Does this serve?" Arianne teases and Sansa nods.

"Thank you." She manages, tongue tripping over the words. " _Oh, thank you._ "

Arianne kisses Sansa's cheek fondly before turning to one side and picking up a cloak- White velvet, with a grey direwolf running across the back and Sansa swallows thickly as Arianne fastens the cloak around her neck. 

"There." Arianne says satisfied, and Sansa, suddenly overcome with emotion lunges at her. Head dropping to nestle in her shoulder, arms tight around the Princess's waist and she inhales on a sob. 

"Thank you." 

"Shhsh." Arianne croons, patting her head lightly. "You don't want to cry on your Wedding day!" 

Sansa nods, resolving to keep her emotions under check and steps back a pace with flushed cheeks. Arianne swipes at her eyes delicately making sure her eye decorations haven't smeared, smiling beautifully. She's all dressed up herself, in a shimmering gown of orange. A sun and spear decorate one shoulder, and she looks even more stunning then usual. Prince Doran will be proud of her, and Sansa wonders if her own Father would be proud of her. She misses him so much... He was to give her away, tell her she looked beautiful and how he was _proud_ \- She bites her lip to stop the tears that threaten to bloom again, her vision blurring for a second before she gnaws at her cheek and commands herself to be stronger. She is being silly and unladylike, and she draws herself up taller and asks when she is to leave. 

"If you are all ready, I shall go and check on my brother and Myrcella." Arianne smiles and departs quickly. 

"Will you be attending the wedding?" Sansa asks her maids as they begin to pack everything away. 

"No that's for nobles only, but we're to attend the feast after." Zhoe's eyes glitter excitedly.

"I'm glad." Sansa smiles at the pair. "You have worked so hard for me, I would hate for you to miss out on all the food and fun."  

"It is our life." Rhea shrugs modestly even as Zhoe starts to talk of all the food she loves and had she heard- 

Tully and Stark run through the door to Sansa's delight, and she laughs when she sees the huge white bows fastened around their necks. 

"Oh you look beautiful." She giggles, scooping them up into her arms to press kisses to their noses. Stark grumbles deep in his throat, and Tully yaps, tail hitting Sansa's hip and she's laughing as Arianne comes back with Myrcella and Trystane in tow to tell her the carriage is outside waiting. Her laughter dies swiftly, and she takes a deep breath and nods, walking out of the room beside Arianne. She is a Stark for a while longer yet, and she is brave. _She is._

* * *

The carriage transporting her to the Old Palace is huge, gilded white gold with bronze spears and suns pulled by four golden Sand Steed horses. The seat Sansa sits on is draped with satin and velvet, huge goose filled pillows soft beneath her. The sun catches every piece of gold on the carriage, so bright it makes Sansa squint as the carriage slowly starts to carry away from the Sandship. She leans one hand out of the carriage window, peering past the golden drapes to run her hands over the equisite design of the door, the polished dark bronze handles and the grand Martell sigil raised and smooth beneath Sansa's fingertips. She reclines back ever so slightly into the satin pillows draped over the seat she perches on, velvet covered bench soft beneath her. She has never travelled in anything so beautiful, so- so  _royal,_ so  _Princely,_ and the polished inside smells faintly of oranges and Arianne is nestled beside her, warm flesh pressed against hers. 

Trystane and Myrcella follow on in another carriage behind them, a smaller and less grand version of the one Sansa herself rides in. Arianne tells her every woman of House Martell, whether that be true born Princess or a girl married into the family like her own Mother Mellario has travelled in the same carriage, drawn through the same route through Sunspear to grand applause.

The carriage wheels clatter down the sandy streets of Sunspear, and so many people line either side of the carriage holding her Sansa can do nothing but stare blindly for the first few minutes as what seems to be the entire population of Sunspear cheer her name and throw rose petals in her direction. She cannot help but smile, for it seems so absurdly unreal. How long had she dreamt of being a Queen? Of having hundreds of people adore her? After Joffrey she could think of nothing worse to be, and even now she has reservations of being a Princess of Dorne for she is so weary of war and politics and battles and  _death._ She wants to go home, but whilst she is here in Dorne she will serve them as best to her abilities for they deserve a good Princess - not a person like Joffrey, never like King Joffrey. She wants their smiles and love towards her to be true, to never vanish, and when Arianne raises her voice over the chanting to tell her some people have travelled for  _days_ to see her, her heart goes out to them all from the oldest crone to the youngest babe and she smiles all the larger. She hopes they can tell that she will be a good Princess to them, kind and true. 

The sun is out in full force, and it is sweltering in the carriage, a thin breeze as the horses reins jingle, hooves ringing on the cobbles. Sansa bounces and slips in the back slightly, shuffling to the edge of the carriage to catch the warm sun on her face. She fears the sun will burn her neck, scorch her cheeks red by nightfall, but won't that be a sight for Prince Oberyn to see? She is so  _warm,_ the bright day and warm smiles making a levity spread over her bones, and rose petals rain down into her hair and she presses her chest into the cold metal edge of the carriage, leaning down to touch the outstretched fingers of children that run beside her, barefoot and brown, giggling merrily. She wonders if this is how her brother feels when he goes out onto battle, with his men by his side cheering his name. Oh, how she wishes Robb were here beside her to hold her hand in comfort, whisper that Oberyn would sorely regret touching her.

The carriage plods slowly on through Sunspear's streets, and every house is decorated with flowers, lillies and roses and violets strung up and raining petals down on the people below. The wheels of the carriage roll and rock unevenly over the ground as the Old Palace looms in the distance, and still there are swarms of people, droves who have turned out to see her, their new Princess. She is gasping for breath in amazement, hands brushing the peasants who clap and holler and smile. Tears well in her eyes again, heart swelling for she thought she was hated and all these people who don't even know her truly are happy she is marrying their Prince- 

The salt breeze tinges Sansa's cheeks and lips the closer they travel to the Old Palace, the wind from the sea providing a greatful coolness against her skin. She can smell blood oranges too, and wine, and there are already festivities on street corners celebrating prematurely, toasts ringing out for her, Sansa Stark, Princess of the North, Sansa _Martell,_ Princess of Dorne too. Sansa's hair tickles her ear, plaits dancing down her back as she turns her head to one side and the other trying to take everything in. How Arianne had organised everything she does not know, but banners displaying the direwolf of House Stark and the sun and spear of House Martell are hung in the courtyards Sansa rolls through, and fountains of  _wine_ bubble and spurt upwards, and finely dressed archers send flamed arrows into the air to mark her progress through the city. 

Sansa feels like it's all a dream, just like the stories she used to believe would come true, and even though Arianne's hand is warm in hers as she points out every tiny detail she put together she still wants to pinch herself.  

"You'll go straight to the Sept to marry, then you'll sit in the Throne room to recieve guests." Arianne tells her as the carriage turns onto the Threefold gates to ride smoothly and straight to the Old Palace before them. "And after that will be the feast and the entertainment and the bedding."

Sansa's stomach squeezes with nerves, and she turns her head up to look at the splendidly decorated arches, adorned with flowers and shells and sweet smelling fruit. The sharp scent of limes cling to Sansa's nose as the carriage keeps creeping closer to the Palace, and the crowds are even thicker here, their process nail bitingly slow. Sansa must breathe slow and steady, in and out, and she digs her nails into her palms as Arianne takes her hand again, patting it comfortingly. She speaks no more now, and Sansa keeps a smile plastered on her face for the people cannot see her upset and unwilling to marry their much-loved Prince. The gates to the Palace are opening now, and Sansa can see all the Sand Snakes lined up in a row in a flurry of different colours, and there are all the nobles of Dorne too clapping politely at her arrival as the horses shake their heads and raise their feet, trotting proudly around the courtyard to a stop. It is deathly quiet when the carriage stills, and Sansa's breath catches in her throat before she swallows and the footman opens the door to help her out. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wedding Part II

She takes a jittery breath, skirts rustling as she walks back and forth, pacing around the antechamber next to the packed Sept, full of nobles to watch on as she and Oberyn marry. Any minute now they will call for her- but who is going to escort Sansa to her husband is a mystery to her for Father is dead. Her hands twist and twine at her throat nervously, legs shaking and she sits down heavily on a chair, pale fingers digging into the mahogony handles. She wishes Tully or Stark were with her but Zhoe and Rhea had taken the pair back with them for a wedding was no place for dogs. Not for a wolf either, and she thinks of Lady wistfully, wishing she could be by her side, silent and huge and ever-protective. 

"Sansa?" 

She bolts up out of the chair with a clatter of pearls and beads, a rustle of skirts and ribbon. She sags back and sighs with relief when she sees it's only Ellaria slipping into the room. 

"Sorry." Her husband's partner apologises, closing the door behind her and slowly making her way to Sansa's side. She looks so beautiful, clothed in a dark blue dress that clings to every curve. She smells of lillies when she places cool, gentle hands on her shoulders, tilting her chin up. Tears appear in Sansa's eyes automatically and she sucks in a rattled breath. 

"I'm beautiful, aren't I?" 

"Very." She praises, pressing her lips against Sansa's powdered cheek. "So beautiful. Oberyn will be speechless." 

 _He will still be able to say the vows though._ Sometimes Sansa curses the beauty Mother gave her, for even when Joffrey got his Kingsguard to beat her he still left her face clean because he liked to leer. Her skin crawls at the memory and she throws it away. She doesn't wish to remember. 

"Thank you." Sansa whispers into her collarbone, and her fingers flex uneasily by her sides, fumbling at the cream beads on her dress. "Ellaria I-" She closes her eyes for a long moment. _I'm brave, aren't I?  I'm trying not be scared._ She opens her eyes again and sighs softly. "I wish my Father was here. Who's going to give me away?" 

"Prince Trystane, I believe, in substitute for his Father."

Sansa nods absently, gazing over Ellaria's shoulder at the door. Robb could have given her away, if he were here. He would have tucked her arm around his and smiled his familiar smile and she'd feel a little bit more comfortable. She wonders if he thinks of her, having to marry a man older then Father. She wonders if he even knows, battling Lannister's to try to win her back - only to find out she had been sold off already. How he will be so  _hurt,_ feel so  _guilty-_ Sansa's heart twinges, face threatening to crumple before she straightens her spine and clasps her hands together in front of her stomach.  _  
_

"Sit," Ellaria invites, ushering her over to a gorgeous emerald dresser with panels of dark wood patterned with gold. "I have something for you." 

"You do?" Sansa's wary reflection looks back at her from the glass as she carefully sits down into the chair Ellaria's pulled out. Careful not to ruin her dress, have a bead or jewel fall off before it can be fixed.

"You needn't be scared." Ellaria says. "I understand you might be, but I bring only a nice gift." 

She unfurls her hand from the secret pocket stitched into her dress and withdraws a beautiful necklace. Pearls and diamonds strung together, sparkling and expensive and royal. It will suit her perfectly with her wedding dress, but Sansa cannot accept any more gifts. Not from Ellaria, not for Oberyn's sake. The paramour giving the wife to be one of her necklaces? She feels dizzy at the thought and she watches the painful expression flower on her pale face.    

"Oh _no_ Ellaria." Sansa shakes her head in agony, lips pressed tight together. "I cannot."

"You won't be so rude to reject a gift will you?"

Sansa's eyes widen in panic and she is not _ungrateful-_  "No I only- this is _yours_  Ellaria-"

"And now it is yours."  

"Ellaria, Prince Oberyn gave this to you not me." Sansa says feebly. 

"Then we know he likes it." Ellaria says calmly as she fastens it around Sansa's neck. It hangs heavy in the hollow curve of Sansa's throat and Sansa's fingers reach up to stroke it. 

"I shall be sending it back on the morrow." Sansa says fiercely and Ellaria laughs. 

"I have no doubt you shall." 

They both stare at their reflections in the mirror, Ellaria willowy and confident behind her, dark curls artfully mussed, lips coloured with a slick of lip paint. Sansa, a pale and wretched creature slumped in front. Beautiful yes, but a cold beauty. Pure ice, Sansa thinks. Shades of snow, unblemished and grey. Hair like fire twisted back from her sharp face. Eyes as blue as the waters around Sunspear, the bright sky above, but Sansa hates the look of them. How they are so guarded and wary, shiny with what could be tears swimming in the depths. 

"Can we leave now?" Sansa watches her lips part. 

"Are you in such a hurry?" Ellaria laughs, stroking Sansa's braids. 

"Yes." Sansa nods, face drawn with determination. "I do not wish for everyone to wait for me."  

"I am sure they do not mind waiting to see a beautiful bride." Ellaria soothes, bending forward so her chin rests on Sansa's shoulder, running her hands over Sansa's arms, dark eyes meeting hers in the glass. "Do you need anything?"

"Just..."  _Reassurance. Love. Her family back together and whole._ "Fix my hair please? I think one of the plaits is unravelling and I would hate to look a mess."

Ellaria nods and straightens, carefully sifting through her hair with fingers laden with rings. "It's fine. You're fine."

She strokes Sansa's cheek when she stands up to hug her, clinging tight to her. With her eyes closed, she can almost imagine her to be Mother. Sansa inhales her perfume deeply, hands digging into her back, cheek nestled into her abdomen. 

"I know you don't want this wedding." Ellaria whispers. "I know you don't want to marry anyone at your age, but..." She sighs. "It is truly for your sake we're going through with this and I hope you will see soon. We can protect you better now with this marriage, and you'll have a whole new fierce family by your side. Dorne is a strange place to outsiders but no matter what happens out there-" She gestures to the doors, ominously still. "Or after the feast we already accept you Sansa. You are charming and gentle and _strong,_ and Oberyn respects that." 

Sansa bites back tears from the sudden swell of emotion that seizes her as Ellaria rocks her like a child. She is a child no longer, and she's strong, and she must know. Sansa turns her head up to face her. 

"What is it like to bed him?" She asks plainly, eyes beseeching. "Forgive me, but I need to know. Be honest. _Please._ " 

"He is a good lover." Ellaria tells her. "If you wish it to be gentle, he will be that. If you wish it to be more rough, he will do that. If you wish to do nothing at all, or everything, anything, he will do whatever you desire." She looks at Sansa with troubled eyes. "But do not push yourself to do something you will regret, Sansa. I can only imagine-" 

"I am a woman grown now." Is all Sansa says with a shrug, pointy shoulders angled upwards defensively, and with perfect timing the door swings open with a knock and Prince Trystane stands before them.

"Princess Sansa." He says excitedly. His black hair flops into his eyes as he walks towards her. "You look - very pretty." 

"Thank you Prince Trystane." Sansa manages a small smile. "But it is from all your sister's efforts." 

"I think she has only emphaised the beauty already there." Ellaria says gracefully, passing Sansa the bouqet of orange blossoms that laid on a table to one side. Sansa's hands clench around the sweet-smelling flowers, and Ellaria pats the sparkling jewelled clips in her hair down, swishing her intricately braided plaits tumbling down her back.  

"Ready?" Trystane says cheerily, and Sansa nods as Ellaria departs with a whispered farewell. Prince Trystane pats her arm comfortingly. He is handsome in a red doublet and dark breeches that go well with his olive skin. The complete opposite to Myrcella, just like Sansa and Oberyn. 

"Mine Uncle is nervous too."

"Truly?" Sansa finds that hard to believe.

Trystane laughs. "No, but I'm told ladies like to hear that. Uncle Oberyn is excited, we all are." He bounces on his feet ever so slightly. "I can't wait for Arianne to arrange mine and Myrcella's marriage." 

"I am sure it will be even more grand then this." Sansa promises, before she hears the abrupt silence behind the doors and clamps her mouth shut. Sweat breaks out on her forehead, and she takes a shallow breath before gripping tight to Trystane.

"Are you ready?" He mutters, turning to look at her. "I can tell them to wait-"

"No." Sansa shakes her head. "No. I'm ready." 

Trystane nods and opens the door, and Sansa doesn't know how she does it but she puts one foot in front of the other again and again, and before she knows it she's stood at the front of the Sept and Oberyn stands beside her. The cool interior of the Sept is disturbed by the huge swelling flock of people, whispering and applauding as she takes her place at the front. She can almost feel the heat radiating off the tiles underfoot, and everything and everyone is awash in golden and yellow hues from the sun pouring in through the large windows. The air is thick with the scent of perfumes, numerous candles flickering, their shadows bobbing on the walls. 

The Sand Snakes stand at the front of one side with Ellaria, Arianne and Doran and Trystane and Myrcella beside them. Prince Oberyn's whole family, and when Sansa peers to the side closest to hers there are no kin there, only Dornish nobles come to witness the ceremony. The whole Sept is stuffed fit to burst with bodies and it is uncomfortably stifling, and Sansa shifts uneasily, knuckles white around her bunch of flowers. The sweet fragrance wafts under her nose sickeningly, and she takes a deep breath.    

"Are you well?" Oberyn whispers to her and she nods automatically. 

He has never looked more handsome; clothed in a golden doublet with amber and bronze jewels for buttons, glimmering around the cuff. His orange cloak rests lazily over his shoulders, flung back to swish against his spotless white breeches and dark leather boots. The clasp is a tiny red sun and spear, and he inclines his head to lean closer into her. He's had a haircut, and his silky black hair sits ruffled around his collar. It emphasies his long nose, his dark glimmering eyes that catch hers and makes her cheeks warm.   

"I confess I am a bit scared myself. I have never been married before." 

She knows he's trying to reassure and relax her, especially given what Trystane told her, but perhaps the smile on her lips _is_ a bit more natural after, for he is acting the fool in front of _everyone_. He is the Red Viper; he's scared of nothing - certainly not marriage to _her._ He doesn't seem to care the nobles of Dorne can see his silliness, and he takes the flowers from her hands and passes them to Trystane so softly she barely notices when his hands hold hers. He is so gentle with his words when the Septon asks for their vows that Sansa doubts the people in the back can even hear him. She repeats the vows without even thinking, lips heavy and numb. There are blessings and promises and singing in the thick Dornish drawl, and it would have been lulling and sweet any other time but it barely filters through Sansa's ears.

She is hyper aware of Oberyn beside her, and she has timed his breath to the second, the way his eyes stay fixed on hers instead of the Septon, the way his hair tickles his collar and the jewels of his doublet catch the light. The way she can smell his perfume strong and alluring, the way he stands so confident and poised, so _tall_ beside her. When it is time to exchange cloaks, Oberyn won't allow Trystane to remove Sansa's cloak and instead lets her fingers fumble at the silver clasp at her neck before Oberyn's hands are warm over hers, pressing gently to stop her and ease her trouble. He removes her maiden cloak easily, so easy a flush rises on Sansa's cheeks again at her inept hands. The Martell cloak is soft and slim orange velvet, a simple but bold red sun and spear emblazoned in the middle of the huge swath of fabric and it puddles at her feet on the tiled floor amongst her slippers and skirts.  

"With this kiss I pledge my love." Oberyn says, voice ringing with confidence. 

"With this kiss I pledge my love." Sansa murmurs as his hands leave hers to gently cup her cheeks.

One finger twitches as if to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, and Sansa shivers as he leans in close. From desire or apprehension she could not say, only that the feather-light kiss is so brief it is over before it properly began. Over before Sansa can truly process his lips on hers, and she blinks startled, eyebrows lowering into a tiny frown as the Sept echoes with claps and cheers. Oberyn grins over at her as the Septon blesses them, face sparkling from the rainbow light that spills through the coloured glass windows and Sansa is illuminated in golden sunshine like a halo as they turn to the merry crowd. His hand is warm in hers as he presents her proudly to the Dornish nobles, and she smiles at their blessings and tries not to wonder what Oberyn's lips would have felt like if they'd pressed against hers for longer. 

* * *

The line of well wishers stretches out of the double doors of the throne room into the bright airy hallways of the palace, and Sansa sits on a throne beside Oberyn with one dainty hand twisted upwards to greet the next noble. It feels wrong, to sit in such a place of high honour. A place for a ruling Prince or Princess of Dorne, but Doran had graciously allowed his brother to recieve their guests in his seat. Oberyn lounges on his brother's chair with the Martell spear at its back allowing the next man to ascend the dais with a flick of his head looking not an inch out of place, of course. Sunlight streams through the coloured glass down upon them warming their heads and making everyone positively glow. It is much cooler here then the Sept and Sansa relishes the cool breeze licking her legs, her arms. She leans forward and murmurs a thanks to Ser Deziel Dalt as he presents her a handsome leather-bound book. With a gentle hand Sansa turns the crisp blank pages. 

"Your husband mentioned you enjoy writing and practising your letters; I thought this would bring you joy." Ser Deziel explains, bright eyes shining, smile half hidden by the close-cut beard on his sculpted chin. 

Sincere gratitude squeezes Sansa's heart and she looks up at him hoping to covey her pleasure on her face, the soft and slightly bewildered upturn of her lips for she did not think any of the nobles of Dorne would even think of her intimate feelings, that Oberyn even _spoke_ of her to others...

"Thank you."

"It is my pleasure Princess."

He kisses her offered hand, and heads off back down the steps, passing Lady Nymella Toland who's carefully carrying a beautiful perfume bottle. Midnight blue glass, with a cloudiness that disguises the perfume within. An ornate silver top, tiny charms jingling.

The gifts pile up as more and more people offer their congratulations and extend invitations for her and Oberyn to visit their holdings soon, and Sansa is soon surrounded by a cluster of presents when she never expected one. The necklace from Ellaria is enough for it hangs heavy around her neck, but these... these nobles of Dorne give her perfumes and books and jewellery, brooches and riding cloaks and dresses. Tapestries and candlesticks and a looking glass. Oberyn smiles at her mounting pile and says he has a gift of his own for her later and Sansa's stomach flips queasily as she smiles back at him. She does not deserve gifts, certainly not from so many people. They know naught of her, for all they knew she was a traitor just like Joffrey said, but they cheer her name and smile so bright and give her jewels and more. To what end? Is it because of her family? Or because she is Oberyn's wife now? Do they believe her to be so easily moved by genorisity that she will be cowed? Manipulated, just like Queen Cersei had lied, just like Joffrey had promised her mercy and cut off her Father's head. Do they think she will do whatever they ask? Would she do whatever they asked? She only wants to do what is best for them, to be a loyal and loving Princess. She doesn't know why they love her so when she has done nothing to deserve it. All she has done is come from Kings Landing feeble and stupid and unwillingly married the adored Prince Oberyn. Married now, and they most likely expect her to give them another Prince or Princess soon. Perhaps that is why they wish to curry favour with her now, so her and Oberyn's future children will be betrothed to each other? That must be it, and Sansa's stomach gurgles panically, anxiety rising within her for this child of hers having her fate decided before she is even born and she looks down at her lap with a sharp breath before looking up to greet the next guest with a smile. Girls must do as they are expected to after all.      

* * *

Oh, she wishes she could eat. The courses all look beautiful and Arianne and the cooks have surely laboured a great deal over what to serve and she is sure it tastes wonderful... but she cannot eat. Her stomach churns sickeningly with nerves, and she takes a gulp of Dornish wine shifting on her seat. The smell of the rich food makes nausea climb her throat, even as Oberyn and Ellaria and Arianne try to entice her to eat. 

"Here," Arianne says. "I know you'll like this." She spears a piece of honeyed chicken. The scent wafts up Sansa's nose and she is nothing if not dutiful and she opens her mouth when Arianne waves it in her direction. She swallows dryly, and Arianne smiles pleased.

"I rather think I should be the one feeding her." Oberyn shoots a look at his niece who looks not one inch ashamed, leaning back to swill her wine in her goblet with a satisfied smirk. 

"And I think Sansa can feed herself!" Ellaria shakes her head and Oberyn is immediately contrite, turning to grab Sansa's hand and slowly press a kiss to her knuckles.  

"I apologise." He says, eyes searching her face. "For my niece, for trying to do something you can clearly handle - Ellaria is always right. I'm sorry for making you flinch right now too." His hand slowly slips from hers but his gaze pins her to her seat breathless, cheeks flared crimson for she had tried not to jump. His voice lowers, and he leans in as if he were to divulge a grand secret just to her. He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue as Sansa deeply inhales the scent of him, lingering above the food. "But I do not apologise for our beautiful ceremony for you looked stunning, and I want you to make sure that I know everyone believes me not to be the marrying sort but I will treat you with the utmost respect always. If you ever desire me to do something I shall..." He smiles crookedly. "If that means I feed you every meal so be it, but I think you are an independent, strong woman of your own free will and do not need a feeble old man to put a fork to your own lips." 

"You're not old." Sansa whispers, for he is not grey-haired, not yet, and Sansa can never imagine Oberyn as _feeble_. "Not- not  _that_ old."

The huge burst of laughter from Oberyn makes her jump wildly, and her heart hammers against her chest frantically as Oberyn continues to laugh, throwing his head back as his shoulders bounce. Every head nearby turns to swivel at them and Sansa clears her throat mortified, picking up her fork and delicately taking a bite of chicken. Oberyn recovers after a minute, wiping his eyes and Sansa stares at him horrified for she hadn't meant to make him _cry._  

"Prince Oberyn- I didn't-"

"That is why you amuse me so. You are entirely you Sansa, and you are magnificent." 

Sansa doubts that, but she thanks him all the same and when the next course is presented she can eat more then a few morsels. There are so many dishes she loses count - spicy red bean soup and slabs of flatbread, scallops and chunks of fish laid nestled amongst salad leaves. The hall is so crowded, ears ringing with the people chattering and conversing below at the tables, laughter drifting to Sansa's ear and she slowly sinks into the atmosphere around her, losing herself in the food being presented to her. Stuffed green peppers laced with melted cheese and onion, pieces of ham that flake off when eaten. Snake meat that is so hot Sansa can only eat one mouthful to the Dornish's delight, and Oberyn hands her a handkerchief to wipe away the tears the heat produces. There is sweetwine she gulps down, stuffed lemon flavoured duck with fluffy potato and honeyed carrots, crabs with a sour cream stuffed inside she dips in the sauces drizzled around her plate. A peacock that is the star of the courses- huge and beautifully multicloured, its feathers sticking up from the silver platter it lies on steaming.

There is creamy fish pie, the crust falling apart on Sansa's tongue, mutton bubbling in a huge bowl sweetened with orange and pastries wrapped around olives and dates. Her belly is full long before they reach the desserts but she cannot resist trying the food, it is so tempting. Of course there are her beloved lemon cakes, with sweet berries and cream. There are tarts of syrup and peaches glazed with honey, baked apples with the top cut off, cream pooling in the middle. Iced wine Sansa sips as she eats honey off the comb, blackberry jelly smeared on huge slabs of toasted bread. Vanilla whipped egg whites, delicate and fluffy and crumbling as Sansa's spoon slides into the middle and Sansa can eat not a bite more. Her belly aches from over-indulgence and she sighs regretfully, eyeing another cake.  

"I can save you it for the morrow." Oberyn notices her longing stare and she turns to him startled and thanks him. 

"But just a slice." She adds, staring at the cake not even half eaten. "The servings maids may want to try it." 

Oberyn stares at her for so long, with such a queer look on her face her cheeks warm. 

"You are more then I deserve." Is all he finally says, and before Sansa can begin to question it Prince Doran is calling attention with a fork tapping his goblet and a hush descends over the entire room. He shakes off his children's help to stand and grips onto the side of the table himself, knees shaking and knocking. He looks ever so regal though, and his eyes sweep across everyone in the room. Dark and serious, but a soft smile graces his lips.

"I must confess I never thought I would witness the day Oberyn would marry-" A smattering of laughter echos around them. "But I could not think of a better bride. To our new Princess Sansa." He raises his goblet and  _everyone_ else in the room does too and takes a sip, and Sansa's vision blurs with tears  _again,_  throat swelling with emotion making it hard for her to swallow. 

"I hope he shall tame his wild ways." Doran shoots his brother a fond look and Oberyn laughs and Sansa notices they share the same smile - albeit Doran's is a lot more genial then Oberyn's could ever be.  

"I wish them all the best for the future." Prince Doran concludes, sitting heavily back down in his chair with a hastily concealed wince. "To Princess Sansa!"

"Princess Sansa!" 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wedding Part III ft. a cameo by one of my fave characters :)

"Are you sufficiently rested?" Oberyn's - her husband now, voice lilts teasingly as Sansa stares blankly at the empty dancefloor before them, thoughts filled only on her impending bedding. She looks up at his question, blinking nervously. "Or shall I ask another, less beautiful girl to dance with me?"

"If you wish to dance you must only say so and I shall." Sansa stands, wedding dress hindering her movements slightly but Oberyn gently clasps her hand and helps her out from the high table. His hand is so cool in direct contrast to her slick palm, and she makes her way down from the dais with trepidation, neck wavering slightly. Her head is beginning to hurt from the tight plaits digging into her scalp, weighing her head down, but she won't give in and stare at the floor. No, her gaze sweeps over every noble that watches them take their place in the middle of the floor.

There are already singers murmuring ballads, ladies plucking harp strings and men with lutes but their music swells louder as the chatter dies down and Sansa tries to control her breathing as Oberyn places one strong, warm hand on her hip and laces his fingers with hers. Her breath rattles and dies in her throat as her eyes meet his, and he gently twirls her around. They waltz slowly, delicately, and they seem to fit together perfectly in time and rhythm. Her dress flows out around her feet, slippers dancing on the tiles and Oberyn cannot take his eyes off her. It makes her cheeks flush, and she looks over her husband's shoulder as Arianne drags Ser Arys to the floor. She frowns, and Oberyn mimics her, dark eyebrows pulling together.

"Is something wrong?"

She shakes her head quickly and Oberyn nods. He doesn't probe, but his eyes trail hers before he pulls her attention away from a teasing Arianne and a flustered Arys.  

"I must say, I wonder what she has planned for us after."

"There's more?"

His eyebrows raise. "Are you surprised?"

Sansa laughs despite her nerves. "No. But the cost- I am not worthy."

"On the contrary, we all believe you are priceless."

Sansa looks down sharply avoiding his soft gaze, cheeks hot. "I believe we will have to agree to disagree Prince Oberyn, but I thank you for the kind compliment." 

"I speak the truth." He says simply, spinning her around again. 

She is weightless, head spinning along with her dress, the fabric swishing against her skin and she loses herself in the music, the feel of his skin against hers. The way his fingers clench reassuringly tight around hers, his spiced breath hot on her collarbone, the dark glint of his eyes as the room whirls past them in a blur of colours, his solid thigh pressed against hers. She could kiss him now, she could, she could reach across the tiny gap that seperated their faces and press her lips against his. She won't, but she could so very easily. 

He slows down when the music changes pace, the trickle of plucked strings turning slower and Sansa tenses as his hands gently stroke the small of her back, softly caressing through the flimsy fabric. Her neck tightens, spine straight and he croons reassuringly under his breath so low she barely hears him, and when she catches his gaze she could drown, he look so deeply at her.  _Into_ her, she believes with a rush of emotion deep in the pit of her stomach that makes her want to squirm, and her lips part softly in dismay for she doesn't want him to know her inner thoughts. Their feet step fluently back and forth, in together and away always in time, and when she finally stops after the music fades away and polite applause rises she stares at him light-headed. 

Sansa always imagined her second dance as a married woman would be with her Father, but she is transferred from Prince Oberyn to Trystane, and then other nobles want to dance and compliment her skills and she would happily dance with the whole of Dorne all night if it would delay the inevitable, despite having to touch men with muscles and strength in their arms that sit tight around her middle. 

She dances with so many she loses track of the number, and more then an hour later sees her stood to one side of the huge floor now busy with dancing. Loving couples and bawdy partners and more besides, and she takes a reflective sip of her wine watching Oberyn and Ellaria. She is a better dancer to Oberyn, and why would she not be? She has known every inch of his body intimiately for years, and Sansa was foolish to even think her and Oberyn danced well together when you could so clearly  _see_ the love on each of their faces, the tender softness, the way he caressed her cheek and whispered something that made a smile curl on her lips, eyes shining. Sansa's face wavers, stupid tears blurring her vision because she thought when she got married it would be to someone who loved her already, who shared the same dreams and wishes and hope for the future. Somebody who loved her entirely, just like the way Father and Mother looked at each other, the way Oberyn and Ellaria look at each other. The dreams had been snuffed out and died a brutal death when in Kings Landing confronted with Joffrey, but deep in the back of her mind perhaps she had clung delusionally to the hope that maybe, one day- 

Stupid.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

She cannot even be successful in the marriage even if she wanted to for Oberyn has Ellaria already, and now she is stuck in a marriage to a man who loves another and she will waste away unloved and only have children when he wants her lithe body beneath his. She will never experience the love her parents gave each other, never have someone take her to bed for pleasure not heirs, never grow old with someone she loves for Oberyn is in his middle years already and has grown for the last fourteen years with Ellaria. Nobody will ever love her, not truly, not even when her husband said the vows to her and acts kindly. Not in a tender way that surpasses the act of bedding, and she doesn't want to bed anyone now but someday she will (she'll have to tonight) and she will never recieve it from a man who treats her as his own daughter with a paramour a wife in all but name. She'll perish alone with children begot only from rape with no siblings or parents or childhood home, and nobody to kiss her cheek and sleep beside her in the covers, whisper in her ear that things were bad but can be better because he loves her just her, just  _Sansa._ Not Sansa  _Stark,_ Sansa  _Martell._

Nobody will ever look at her the way Oberyn and Ellaria look at each other, and she is almost crying like an idiot on her wedding night for the lack of love she wants but fears from Oberyn all at the same time and everything is so confusing, different thoughts and wishes and desires and fears entangling together in her head that don't even make _sense_  and she can only silently hold back tears in the shadows of her own bright feast and shakily sip more wine. 

Her breath catches, mind unravelling, and her fingers shake, and- 

And-

Nobody sees her slip away. 

She doesn't go far, staggering away to sag down on the marble corridor around the corner. She can still hear the festivities, the laughter and dancing and music, and she wipes away the few tears drying on her cheeks and sniffs. Better to cry here, where nobody can see her. Better to appear in a few minutes bright-eyed and smiling because she'd only been to the privy and was eager to continue her wedding party.  

She takes a deep breath, head lolling back against the wall, the cold of the floor seeping through to her bare legs. Moonlight turns her silver, liquid and light and half a shadow. She misses Father, who should be here dancing and telling her how  _proud_ he was- and all her siblings would be running around the dance-floor, and her Mother should be conversing with her husband's Mother, talking about the children they would both be grandmother of, but Oberyn's Mother was dead and Sansa's far away and it was stupid to daydream still, but it wasn't  _fair._

When the handkerchief is held out before her nose, slighty crumpled laid in the middle of a clammy palm she can only stare for a long moment confused before daintily accepting it. She peers up at the figure who'd presented it to her; he's only a boy. A boy a few years older then her, broad and bulky with a plain unassuming face. A face that shows emotions so clearly she cannot believe he could ever lie, for he stands before her now with thick eyebrows pulled together unhappily. 

Prince Quentyn had been glued to his Father's side all day since he arrived last night, and Sansa has scarcely seen him. They haven't even spoken, and he had been the only Martell to not gravitate towards her after the Wedding. He hadn't even approached her to dance, even when his younger brother had.  

"Sorry." He says quickly, stumbling over the words as his cheeks tinge rosy red. "I - I didn't mean to scare you."

"I am easily startled, the mistake is mine." Sansa says, patting the handkerchief on her damp cheeks. "Thank you for the handkerchief."

"A girl shouldn't cry when it's her wedding." Quentyn mumbles awkwardly, running a hand through his dark brown locks. 

"I was overcome with emotion." Sansa admits, breath breaking on a wavering laugh. "I am just so happy I needed a minute away to process everything." 

"Oh." He gulps, shifting from one foot to the other. "Sorry. Again." 

Sansa can't stop the smile that flickers on her lips as she looks up at him. "It's alright." 

Silence falls between them for a second before he hesitantly sinks down to sit near her. Prince Quentyn is his Father's son through and through. They share the same nose, jaw, chin. Even his eyes are the same, dark and soft. Like his Uncle's too, but Sansa cannot imagine a hardness ever creeping into them. He fiddles with the top button of his bronze doublet, tugging and twisting it with his fingers nervously. 

"I have to marry a stranger too." He confesses. So that's why she was marrying Prince Oberyn and not him, and she stares at him, a flicker of curiously rising within her as she wonders who he is betrothed to. Surely he has met everyone in Dorne, just like her, just like his sister Princess Arianne?

"I am sure you'll have a happy marriage." Sansa murmurs, for he looks so mournful with his slumped shoulders and worried gaze she cannot say nothing. "Just like I and your Uncle shall have." 

Quentyn lets out a huff of alarm, shaking his head so his hair falls this way and that over his large forehead. "You have not heard the rumours. She is... she is..."

"Indescribable?"  

He looks up at her gravely serious, eyes gazing into hers before nodding. "Yes." 

"I am sure she will be honoured to marry someone as kind as you." Sansa says comfortingly, and her hand creeps out an inch to the space between them, fingers cool on the marble. 

"Likewise for my Uncle." Quentyn murmurs, shifting slightly to look at her, face solemn in the moonlight. "He is-"

Sansa smiles. "Indescribable?" 

Quentyn laughs, and the sound startles the both of them, and Sansa's tears are quite forgotten when she lets out a hushed giggle, voice catching on the lump in her throat she swallows away. She spends a second, two, longingly basking in the small pocket of humour found amongst the worry and panic. Stores it away in her mind to remind her of happier times, the way Quentyn's lips curl into a smile that makes her own smile bigger, brighter. 

"I had forgotten what it wwas like here." He muses. "My Uncle, I had quite forgotten his... eccentrics."

"You live in Yronwood." Sansa recalls softly, dress rustling as she shifts to get more comfortable. She smoothes down her skirts as Quentyn nods, face wistful. 

"I have been there so long it feels more like home then Sunspear."

Sansa nods understandingly, thinking of Sunspear, of Winterfell's blustery, wintery days so different. The opposite ends of Westeros, and her heart aches. "I know what it is like, to be far away from home." 

"I haven't been here in years." Quentyn murmurs. "The last time was when I rejected Oberyn's offer to knight me. I got Anders Yronwood to do it instead, my foster Father-"

"You're a knight?" Sansa chokes, staring at his face she thought was so honest. So plain and unassumable, so ordinary yet-

Quentyn nods. "I don't believe I am a worthy knight though. I have seen no battle and slain no man. I- I fear I do not deserve the honour."

"It's not an honour to be a knight." Sansa tells him sharply, for how could he be such a fool as to think knights were honourable? She remembers the Kingsguards, the most elite of them all beating her daily while Joffrey watched, the way nobody would help her as she sat sobbing on the floor. Arys here now, dancing with Arianne who doesn't  _know-_

"Knights are... they are cruel, and decievers and bring harm to innocent people."

"I cannot talk for others, but I would never harm someone." Quentyn says firmly, jaw tightening. "In the songs-"  

Sansa sighs softly, gazing up into Quentyn's soft eyes. "Sometimes life isn't like the songs Prince Quentyn." 

She wants to tear the innocence from him, but she can't bear to see someone else's life shattered just like hers was. He is so sweet, so naive. She could tell him so easily, what they did to her, how they abused her and threatened her and cut off her Father's head, ripped her gown and left her near-naked- bruised her body, showed her Lord Eddard's  _head-_

She gurgles out a wet laugh, tears making her vision blurry again. She has to stop crying, stop  _thinking._ Of tonight, of Father and her family, of _everything._

A minute passes, two, while he reflects on one what she's whispered. 

"Sometimes people can try." Quentyn finally says. "To be like the songs... the legends." 

"They can try." Sansa agrees dully, too spent to argue with him, convince him otherwise. She doesn't want to stop the  _kindness_ in his eyes, the way they gaze at her liquid and limpid, glowing with warmth. 

"I try." He whispers, leaning in closer to her feverently, and somehow Sansa can't be afraid of the stuttering boy who handed her a handkerchief, who believes life is still like a song. "Everyday." 

"Then you will be a good husband Quentyn." Sansa exhales softly, gazing out across the window opposite into the courtyard. Light is fading fast, and soon... soon- "Your wife to be is a lucky woman." 

In another world, perhaps he could have been her knight. Truly her knight, with his eyes so eager to please, the soft child-like sincerity that lines his solemn face. They could talk of old tales and legends, and he would be nervous around her but better that then over-confident. She could stay here for the rest of the night so easily, talking with this Martell who is quiet and soft-spoken and shy. In another life she could have; she could have gotten to know her husband, the plain faced boy only a few years her elder, with a solemn face and a smile worth waiting for. But it does no good to think of things that would not be, so she stands up with a rustle of pearls and beads and skirts and says she should go before people realise she's left.

"I'll escort you." Quentyn says quickly, hopping up and holding out one arm. 

"My thanks." Sansa says with a faint smile. "You are very gallant. My own Florian." 

Yes, exactly like Florian the fool, and her heart aches for him as he walks her gently back to the feast, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

* * *

There's an animal the same size as her with big soulful eyes and a long nose that tickles Sansa's palm to her delight. Silver grey and wrinkled, stomping up to Sansa with its long nose twisting around and yanking at her hair as if to eat it.  

"It's so _cute_." 

Strange, but adorable too, and she scratches its big ears and it trumpets in delight to her surprise. She steps back startled into Arianne who laughs softly in her ear, arms around hers to steady her.

"It's a dwarf elephant." Arianne explains, while Sansa tosses another apple into the hastily constructed pen at one corner of the huge courtyard, straw sprinkled upon the dusty ground. "The captain from Volantis was happy for us to have her for the night while he enjoyed the pillow houses." 

"You could ride it." Elia exclaims when she squirms her way to Sansa's side. Eyes bright in the night as she turns to her new good-Mother. "That's what they do in Volantis isn't it?" 

"Yes." Quentyn nods from where he stands nearby. He's stuck by Sansa like a shadow when they'd appeared back amongst the feast-goers, the nobles who would engage her in conversation. She doesn't know if he's enamored with her or merely protecting her like the knight he sees himself as being, but she likes his company so she doesn't mind.

Arianne swings her gaze around to him confused, like she'd forgotten he was there, before addressing Sansa. "Do you wish to?" 

" _Ride_ it?" Sansa laughs. "I can't!"

Sansa knows Arianne is doing an admirable effort to keep her mind off the bedding which will occur whenever they go inside. They mill out in the cool night now, waiting for something Sansa has no doubt is spectucular. 

"Yes you can." 

"I'd look silly. Very unelegant." Sansa strokes its neck again. "I'd be too heavy." 

Arianne snorts. "You've got no meat on you. Very well, it was merely an idea. She's still cute is she not?" 

"Very." Sansa smiles lovingly as the elephant nudges her hand. "Thank you Arianne, for all the gifts. This wedding is... far beyond my wildest dreams." 

And that precise moment is when an ear-shattering crack splits the air and Arianne's cool fingers tilt a panicked Sansa's head up so she can gaze at the colours dancing in the sky, spiralling amongst the stars.

"Oh." Sansa breathes, as the fireworks blaze red and yellow and green, purple and blue and silver.

Rippling and swirling, clattering and banging and wheeling. A display that makes her ears ache and her eyes widen as they swirl into a perfect _O_ and _S._ Sparks and flares shine bright in the night sky, drawing everyone's attention for miles around and Sansa knows even sailors on the sea will see the bursts of light and wonder and it's all for _her_. Her stomach lurches giddily as she clasps her hands together in delight, enchanted by the colours and sounds and how did they twist into shape? To form her inital and Oberyn's too, and they are so _pretty_ she never wants them to stop. 

The colours twist and cartwheel through the air making spirals even as the shriek makes Sansa's ears ache and she doesn't know which way to look and ends up cricking her neck she moves from left to right so fast, eager not to miss a second of the magnificent display. One and two and three exploding in a riot of shades, and her exclaimations are drowned out, her claps going unheard from the din. 

It is so magical that when they begin to slow down Sansa frowns not wanting it to end, and she savours the last few fireworks that snake into the sky and lazily unfurl with fizzled pops. The sparks flutter down, down, down, before winking out of existance and Sansa sighs, spinning around to hug Arianne. 

"I've never seen that before." Sansa says breathlessly, eyes wide. "They were...  _magical._ " 

"I'm glad you thought so." Arianne smiles. 

 There's an undercurrent of murmuring in the crowd after the fireworks have ended, and Sansa stands stiffly next to the elephant pen running her hand up down, up down, up down it's back. She avoids looking over where Oberyn stands, Prince Doran too, and focuses only on the elephant because she is sure in the morning it will be gone, and she's never seen such a creature before and like as not never will again. Something special to write to Mother and Robb about, and Sansa feels a surge of guilt that she's getting fancy fireworks and elephants and carriage rides whilst Robb fights the Lannister's and Mother mourns Bran and Rickon and maybe Sansa too. 

The nobles shuffle about, the whispers growing louder and Sansa's cheeks redden, eyes fixed on the elephant she coos over. They begin to make lewd suggestions, snickering and tutting as their eyes flicker over her. 

"Are we having a bedding?" Someone finally inquires to a smattering of laughter, and Sansa clenches her hands into fists when one man makes a jape about the North being cold and how Oberyn will-

Her cheeks are on fire, even as Oberyn laughs off the bawdy comments and makes his way quickly over to her. Swarthy and handsome in his wedding finery, and he smiles easily, effortlessly at the jeers even though his eyes stay firmly on hers and not any lower.   

"Shall we Sansa?"

He extends a hand, and how can she not take it?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wedding Part IV
> 
> Sorry this has taken so long, still not exactly happy with this chapter, but I'm sick of having it stuck in my drafts for a week.

Oberyn closes the door of his bedchamber as soon as they enter. It is a valiant effort, but still the cheers and jokes of the Dornish nobles drift through the thick heavyset oak. Such crude things, so unseemly, and Sansa's cheeks are hot with mortification. She doesn't even understand most of what they say, but their tone makes their meaning clear. _  
_

Servants had tidied the Prince's room; lighting candles and pulling back the bed covers, plumping up the pillows and throwing petals Sansa is sure are from the same flowers as her bouquet earlier. She sniffs reflexively at the sweet scent, and Oberyn must think her more upset by the jeers then she is for he sighs angrily, face pinched and dark locks ruffled around his collar as he stalks towards the door, throwing it open. His voice isn't loud, nor even threatening, but it is laced with a confident undercurrent that he were a Prince of Dorne and this was his Wedding Night and he nor his newly-made wife would not be disturbed. 

They melt away quickly after that, and Sansa even hears a few apologies in between the muttering as she turns around the room awkwardly.

It looks the same as always, apart from the addition of candles and flowers which Oberyn could have easily added himself. The floor is still draped with fancy Myrish carpets, and there's the drawers with the huge jewel handles as large as pigeon eggs, and the people in the paintings seem to watch her as she waits for her husband. She feels out of place, for though she's been in the room a few times, never like this, and she wants to rub her slick hands down her wedding dress, duck to the Privy and hide. She doesn't even know her sleeping arrangements - does Oberyn wish for her to sleep with him? Surely not, for he has Ellaria, but maybe he wants her too? She hovers uneasily in the centre of the room as Oberyn locks the door with a thud that echoes deep in Sansa's gut. She can't escape now, and she watches silently as her husband saunters over to the side table decorated with wine. He pours her a generous amount of Dornish red and passes it over to her with a hum, and Sansa realises belatedly he's humming the song he and her first danced to. She takes a nervous sip of wine, relishing the fruity taste on her cracked lips, swilling the liquid around her dry mouth as she waits. Waits for him to talk, to move towards her, to take what was now his. For him to do  _something,_ instead of making her wait and turning her nerves unbearable. 

She downs her goblet of wine in a mere minute and sets it down on the table with precise presicion, fingertips dragging across the colourful tiles as she reluctantly turns back to face him again. She feels more childlike then ever in the moment she is supposed to be a woman, and she plucks at her dress awkwardly, swishing the hem wondering when she will be out of it. Oh, she hopes he doesn't rip it. Sansa couldn't bear it if it were ruined beyond repair, for it is so beautiful. 

"Have you had fun?" Oberyn asks kindly, face creasing into a warm smile.

He regards her as a Father with his innocent inquiries that skirt the obvious reason why they are here, but he must have feelings for her. All men do. She has heard the men outside, has seen the court stare at her wide-eyed when she was half-naked and quivering, even Joffrey had ordered her face to be kept pretty when the kingsguard beat her. People stare at her with hungry eyes, make comments that suggest things not to be thought of and Sansa wants to tell them she is only _thirteen,_ she's only just started her moonblood, she doesn't know what they talk of - she doesn't want to know. The Gods like to punish her. _Why?_ What has she done that the Gods hate her so? They have killed Lady and Father and Bran and Rickon, had her beaten and bruised, taken her to Dorne to be married to a man more then thrice her age. When will the torment end? In death will she even see her family again? Or will the Gods, for some unknown reason, deny her that too? 

Oberyn is still looking at her, waiting for an answer, and she must show her emotions so clearly for his eyes flicker to the door. "I hope their comments did not spoil a good day. Arianne went far and beyond what I expected." He chuckles. 

"I have never seen an elephant before." Sansa whispers, hesitantly lowering herself onto his sofa. He doesn't rebuke her and merely follows suit, leaving a sizeable gap between them. He pulls one leg up, crossing it over one thigh, and Sansa hadn't realised until now how his breeches clung to his thighs so- She bites her lip uneasily. 

"Perhaps I'll take you to Volantis one day and show you them." Oberyn continues easily, chattering on as if they are life-long friends and not man and wife on their wedding night. Trying to relax her, to make it easier. For her? Him? Mayhaps he wouldn't feel too bad after, if he knew they'd talked a bit before. 

"They have huge elephants there Sansa, and they ride them all day." His eyes are far away in memories, bright and sparkling with adventure. 

"Quentyn said so." Sansa murmurs quietly.

"They have a different system over there, where three rulers are in charge for only a year. One of the triarchs are called the Elephants... there's the tigers too, have you ever seen a tiger?" 

Sansa barely has time to shake her head before he's frowning. "No, of course not. Well, when they're electing the new ruler it's ten days of pure madness... but you don't want to hear of that." He laughs, his teeth bright in the dim light. He has never looked more comely, his dark locks tumbling around his shoulders, ruffled and mussed, his olive skin shining beautifully and only emphasising the wrinkles and laugh lines around his bright eyes. 

"Perhaps I'll take you there one day, would you like that?" 

Sansa's mouth flutters, fingers twining together in her lap. "I would be happy to go wherever you wished."

"Even if you despised it so? Would you go back to Kings Landing, if we were required to?"

She frowns, for how could she deny him that? They would be required by royal command, by Joffrey's command, and Sansa's stomach twists at the mere thought.

"I would do whatever you, my Lord husband and Prince would want me to. It doesn't matter how I feel."

"You are too good Sansa." He takes her hand before she can react, but his lips only just caress the tips of her fingers. "Too good for a man like me."

She says nothing as she reclaims her hand. The tips tingle where his lips brushed, and she is all fingers and thumbs. What could she possibly say? Thank him? But that would only mean she agreed that he was _bad,_ and by saying that did he tell her he  _was_ bad? But he promised her- Her mind whirls, and fatigue hits her square in the chest for she is so  _tired,_ of the nerves and thoughts and she yawns discreetly behind one hand.

"Forgive me, I did not think. You must be tired. You do not want to be sat talking to me all night." A smile plays on Oberyn's lips as Sansa stands up weak-kneed, almost knocking over a candle. If she had, perhaps the whole of the Old Palace would have burnt down and they would be unable to consummate their marriage, and a hysterical laughter tries to work its way out of Sansa as she spins around dizzily. The perfume in the room is getting to her head it seems, and she sucks in a deep breath and lowers her head, trying to take off her dress. Her shaky fingers scrabble at the loose fabric, the folds that seem to go on forever, and the longer it takes the more frustrated and panicked she becomes for he must be watching her _annoyed-_

"Stop, Sansa."

She freezes. Oberyn is watching her carefully, lips pursed.

Humilation waves over her and tears prickle her eyes as she nods. Was he so disgusted by his yearnings for her young body he would keep her clothed? Or did he just think her repulsive and unattractive, despite what the other Dornish teased? 

She takes a thin sliver of breath through her nose, clenching her fists into the skirts of her dress before slowly lifting them. Cheeks hot, eyes swimming with tears she desperately tries to blink away, and she only bares her ankles before he’s suddenly before her, gently lowering his hands a hairsbreadth above hers. 

“What are you doing?”

“You-” Her voice quivers. “You said to stop, I thought you-”

His hands press down on hers, warm and gentle but firm, pushing her hands back down to her side, her skirts falling back to sway against her. She exhales noisily, staring up at him bewildered.

"I want your dress off for it must be cumbersome and tiring." He says, ever-patient. "But I am not going to bed you."

He tells her such pretty lies and she stares at him resignedly, too tired to argue anymore, pretend it wouldn't happen and delay the inevitable. With a sigh she reaches around to the back of her dress and fiddles with the buttons. Her fingernails scrabble uselessly on the silk, tugging and twisting to no avail and frustration wells up within her, movements more frenzied because she just wants it  _off_ she just wants it all  _over-_

"Let me," Oberyn murmurs.  "You forget I have eight daughters." 

Sansa tenses when his breath warms the back of her neck, but she barely feels his fingers as they make quick work of the back of her dress, and he makes sure she has it clasped tight against her before stepping back. Her palms dig into her skin for a beat before she realises Oberyn will see her body anyway in the end so what did it matter her trying to preserve her dignity and nakedness? She lets the dress drop down her body, slithering to her feet to land in a huge puddle of material. Her silk nightwear is sheer, and the candlelight illuminates her every inch and she looks up at Oberyn grimly, face drawn with determination. 

"You look as if you are off to the battlefield." Oberyn remarks, taking her hands in his again. He squeezes them tight, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "I aim to keep my word to you, always. I have no intention of bedding you tonight Sansa - and not ever, if you wish it. If you do then I will of course happily comply, but I don't believe you wish to do you?" He doesn't even let her answer. "You are only a child. Younger then mine own children." He shakes his head and steps back with a sad sigh. 

She can only stare at him mutely. She desperately wants to believe him, for all his actions up to now have been nothing but kind but- there is always a but. Always a niggling suspicion within her brain, and she curses it as much as she uses it to push away everyone who could do her harm. Her mouth flutters as Oberyn sinks back into his sofa with a groan. She watches him for a few minutes, shivering finely. Goosebumps rise on her arms that she rubs away, teeth chattering, but as time slips past and he only settles deeper into his seat ignoring her completely she plucks up the courage to talk again. 

"Are you tired?" Sansa asks timidly, playing with Ellaria's necklace around her throat.

"Very." He's closed his eyes, his hair tousled over his forehead. He looks younger, crumpled and relaxed. "I did not know weddings were such labourous affairs." 

"Not everyone is a Prince of Dorne." Sansa's nervous laugh chokes in her windpipe and she picks up her dress quickly, laying it out on an empty armchair so it doesn't crease. She couldn't bear to let it be ruined, for it must have taken a dozen seamstresses hours and she adores it. As soon as she's done that she's fumbling at her hair for she can't seem to keep still and the plaits are still digging into her skull. Her clumsy hands begin the ardious task of unravelling it all before brushing it out, but she is stopped by Oberyn shifting upwards and making eye contact, gesturing her to sit down. 

"I'll do it."

His smile is inviting, warm, and he smiles so often Sansa finds it strange when he doesn't. She is rooted to the stop, but at Oberyn's encouraging nod of the head she walks forward hesitantly, knees shaking as she sinks down into the sofa, the stretched worn leather warm on the back of her thighs. Her arms are wrapped tight around her chest to hide the silhouette of her breasts through the flimsy nightgown. She is sure he can still see them though and her cheeks prickle with heat as she thanks the Gods she has her back to him- for now. She crosses her legs and waits, but she still jumps when his fingers first touch her hair.

"Sorry." Oberyn says throatily, and Sansa screws her eyes shut as his fingers hesitantly return to her hair. She is ultra aware of every inch of her body, the way they sit inches apart, the way he practically radiates heat, the way his breath fans out on the small of her back. 

He takes out her hair pins with deft hands, slender fingers sifting through the tightly wound plaits and unravelling them. Her auburn hair brush her cheeks softly, tumbling down her back in thick curls as he makes his way steadily through her head and his fingers skirt her aching scalp pressing here, rubbing there, relieving her of the throbbing pain. She even finds herself relaxing somewhat, inch by inch as the minutes pass as he doesn't talk or attempt to draw her into conversation, merely involves himself completely seriously in his task. He hums though, humming again the song they danced to and she closes her eyes, neck lolling forward as his thumbs rub the delicate skin at the back of her neck.

She grows warm beneath his touch, body languid and at ease. He massages the tension away from her tight neck, his humming always in tune and in time, as if an afterthought, as if he doesn't even realise he's doing it. Her eyes grow heavier, and she sighs softly, the tension sapping from her body in waves that leave her feeling exhausted and wrung out. His calloused fingers are soft on her perfumed skin, reassuringly strong and she knows her husband is a warrior but she cannot reconcile that image with the one presented to her now. Soft and slow and gentle, and she is sagging strengthless beneath his fingers, half asleep. She wonders if he does this to Ellaria, massages her sweetly and lovingly while humming a favourite tune of theirs - but she doesn't want to think of Ellaria now, just the way he feels against her, his stomach pressed against her back, his breath tickling the back of her ear so she shivers. 

"You have lovely hair." His voice is a husk of a murmur when he's finished, when her hair hangs heavy around her face, free and unconstricted. She blinks languidly and smiles, half-asleep from the magic woven in his fingertips.

"My Father always complimented my Mother's hair." 

The thought of her Father makes her brow furrow in rememberance but she pushes the grief away to the back of her mind, concentrating on the present - the way Oberyn leans in towards her when she turns around to face him, her hair hanging down between them like a barrier. The way his eyes fix on hers like she is something precious and important - as if he listens to what she says which is a ridicilous thought, for he is a Prince and it is the other way around. The way his eyes are pinned to hers, dark and delicate in the candelight, and they never stray down any further past her neck. 

"I have never met your Mother." Oberyn tells her quietly. "But if her hair is half as beautiful as yours I understand his love."

"Oh it is." Sansa says lovingly, a soft sigh falling from her lips as she turns to meet his gaze. "She was always letting me plait it when I was small. Father used to say I went to sleep with my fingers wound in her hair when I was a babe."

"My daughters did the same with mine." 

"Maybe..." Sansa swallows thickly, and she doesn't even know what posesses her. The wine, most likely, or maybe just the thought of Oberyn's eyes and her hair together on one beautiful child. "Maybe our daughters will do that too."

"Maybe." Oberyn agrees. 

"And sons." 

A soft curl slips lazily over one shoulder as she leans in towards him. He regards her with placid interest, letting her do whatever she desires and she takes a deep breath. She must do it, and do it now before she loses nerve - She leans in, bridging the gap between them. All she can smell is the perfume he wears - spicy and sultry and  _him,_ and if she were to kiss him now- just a bit further, her head canted so, her lips yielding to his- or  _his_ lips yielding to  _hers,_ and the prospect intrigues her somewhere in the mess of her body - what he would do. Kiss her back? Push her away? Push her down and take her- 

Her breathing is feather light, quivering from between her parted wine-stained lips, glossy and sweet, and her head is heady - from wine, anticipation, fevered imagination. Her eyes dart down, widen and flicker back up to meet his nervously. The shot of confidence fizzles away as quick as it came, leaving her stomach twisting painfully. 

"I'm not going to hurt you." 

She can't breathe and she exhales noisily. "Just do it. Just - do it quickly." 

"I said, I'm _not_ going to hurt you. That would be the opposite, wouldn't it?" A smile inches onto his lips, even as he reaches for an item on the nearby table. "Here." 

She blinks bewildered, staring up at the knife in his palms. Smoky grey steel, swirls and whorls dancing in amongst the the white, the familiar hilt with the  _S._

"That's my knife." 

"It would hardly fit with your Wedding dress, so I requested one of your maids to place it in my room when they prepared it." 

She stares at him dumbfounded, watching the silver and grey jewels glitter merrily in the candlelight. Her serene calm has been swept away by her usual nerves, and she finds herself desperately wishing to regain that sense of relaxation. She doesn't want her thoughts to run ragged any more, her limbs tight and breathing frenzied. 

"Take it." 

She holds her hand out automatically, caressing the cold hilt when he hands it to her. The blade is wickedly sharp, and she is almost scared to hold it, the end sharpened to one brutal point. Sansa tries to imagine herself shoving the tip into a man's ribs, heart, gut, and restrains a shudder at the image, the blood gushing-

"Do you trust me a bit more now?" 

His eyes shine in the candlelight; it picks out the shiny silver hairs on his head, casts his skin in a rosy glow, and she wonders what she looks like to him when she nods feverently. 

"I can teach you how to use it properly." He tells her. "But not now. See, I've disturbed you. You were half asleep a minute ago." 

"You are good with my hair." Sansa murmurs, a shy smile flickering on the edge of her lips.  

"Time for bed?" Oberyn suggests, as she hides another yawn. 

He holds out his hand and she takes it with only a second hesitation. He leads her across the room to his huge bed, where he drops her hand to pulls back the covers.

Orange petals are in between the sheets and Oberyn scoffs, bending to pick them out one by one. When he's plucked everyone out onto the floor he gestures her to clambor in. She slips in easily, trying not to shiver in ancitipation. He fusses over her like a child, tucking her in and folding the duvets over her checking she's comfortable and warm and she must just ask if she wants another blanket or pillow.

She sinks into the pillows uneasily, whole body tense for what if he decides to slip in- no, no she has her knife but she  _cannot stab a Prince of Dorne._ But he said he would not blame her and he would deserve it if he did something that made her uncomfortable -  _but Prince Doran would execute me._ And- and she doesn't even  _want_ to stab anyone, the idea was proposerous!

He crouches down at the side of her bed, face almost level with hers. He is watching her so seriously and solemn, dark eyes grave. 

"What are you thinking?" Oberyn asks softly, and his fingers trace the air an inch above Sansa's cheek.

"That I am very tired." Sansa sighs. Tired of the mess of her mind, tired of the incessent worry, tired of mourning and thinking and _weddings_. She closes her eyes for a second before fluttering them back open again worriedly. 

"Where will you go?" Sansa whispers as he's straightens up and starts to turn away.

"I'll sleep here." He lowers himself into an armchair, and grins across at her. 

"You can't." Sansa says feebly.

"I am a Prince, I can do what I wish." He shrugs. "I shall be quite comfortable."

Sansa doubts that, the way his legs hang lazily over one arm, the way he slouches deep into the hard backed chair. 

"Yes, you are a Prince. You cannot sleep in a chair."

"I have slept many a night in this very chair." Oberyn tells her. "What is a bit of stiffness in the morning? You have a luxurous bed all for your own. You can spread out without fear of being squashed by me." He directs a smile to her and she doesn't even have the energy to smile back. She settles slowly and stiffly down, head sinking into the pillows.  _Oh, they were so soft..._ Her eyes instantly grow heavier, and she gazes up at the ceiling lazily watching the coloured pictures. Perhaps she would get Oberyn to tell her them one day...

"Who's the girl in the picture with the dragon?" She asks sleepily, but when she recieves no answer her eyes flicker over to him and he's asleep. Chest rising up and down smoothly, head lolling in the direction of the door, one hand tight on his hip as if to wield a sword at any moment. She chokes on a surprised giggle, hand tightening on her knife. It doesn't take her long to drift off to the sweet smell of candles and flowers, the feel of the fresh sheets on her weary body, her hand wrapped around the hilt of her blade. 

She wakes up hours later. The candles have burnt out long ago, a sliver of sun peering through the crack of Oberyn's curtains. It is early morning, for she can faintly hear the dim of servants although no venture near the Prince's chambers. Sansa stretches out amongst the moutain of pillows utterly at ease, relaxed and refreshed. She wipes the drool off her lip, pats her hair down, and peeks up over the bedcovers. 

He's still there; a crumpled Prince snoring, squashed in a chair and utterly at ease in the early morning light. 

She falls in love with him a little bit then, she thinks. 


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa settles into married life with ease, for it seems marriage is just like her time before the wedding. She still sleeps in own chambers, and is still free to do whatever she desires without Prince Oberyn commanding her every move.

She is still a maiden. 

She sits on a cushion, quietly sewing and trying not to pull faces at the cramps her moonblood gives her. She would ask Oberyn to make her another potion if he desired, but she doesn't know where he is, and she doesn't feel much like moving. She sighs heavily, and holds up her work to the light with narrowed eyes trying to discern if it were good enough to present as a gift. 

Elia rolls her eyes over at her where she lounges half on and half off the setee, chomping noisily on an apple. "Stop panicking. He'll love it." 

"Do you think so?" Sansa asks anxiously, and on the floor beside her Stark yaps, tail wagging as if in confirmation.  

She knew she had to give thanks to her husband in some way, for keeping his word and staying his distance on a night, for not raping her and getting her with child at such a tender age she would die in childbirth. She remembers what Joffrey first said to her when she heard the news of her betrothal to the Dornish Prince, how everyone believed she would die in a bloody bed, her body too young to cope with the strains of birthing a babe. When he'd awoken that morning after the wedding a week ago, he had merely smiled at her and inquired if she slept well. When she'd broached her concerns that there would be talk of their non-consummation Oberyn had only shrugged and said he was a Prince of Dorne and they'd do well not to question whatever he said did or did not happen.

"But blood," She had whispered. "There should be blood in the bed."

"You have ridden a horse before." Is all Oberyn had told her, and he pressed a kiss onto her scalp before wandering into the adjoining room for a bath. 

Every noble that had dared to snicker he had silenced with a quip that made their faces pucker, and the lascivious tone of his voice made mostly all roll their eyes and cease questioning. Sansa knows most believe him, with his bravado and reputation, and hadn't Sansa not believed him too, when he'd said he would not touch her? Regardless, some of Dorne knew the truth if they truly knew their Prince at all, but they didn't say a word to contradict him as Oberyn foretold, and still the Dornish seemed to like Sansa and take her into their hearts. 

"I know so." Elia shrugs. "Father loves anything made for him, and you have a skill with needles just like Tyene. You worry too much."

"And you don't worry at all." Sansa sniffs.

Elia grins, eyebrows rising upwards proudly. 

"Truly," Sansa seeks her hand and holds it, staring into her friend's eyes. "You cannot always say what you think, it could cause you great trouble some day. I- I'm only trying to look out for you as-"

"Don't say as a step-Mother." Elia warns her, eyes narrowed.

They stare at each other for a long moment before Sansa can't help but laugh. Elia cracks up in response, jostling her with her elbow and they giggle like kids. 

"I can't be a Mother to you, you know that." Sansa says breathlessly. "We're the same age."

"As if you could be my Mother." Elia scoffs. "Why did I hate you again?" 

"Because you hate everyone." Sansa says sweetly, and gapes when Elia throws a cushion at her. 

To the bewilderment of everyone including Sansa, after the Wedding Elia had become her most ardent friend, trailing around after her like a shadow and berating her own Father when she heard the nobles talking of their bedding night. Sansa didn't know whether it were their conversation from before the wedding that had reassured her she was no threat to her Mother or self, or Ellaria's quiet words of rebuke to her eldest daughter, or even Oberyn himself that changed Elia's mind, but it wasn't an unwelcome occurance. She was easier to get along with now, and even though her similiarities to Arya sometimes made it unbearable, Sansa enjoyed the presence of Elia for the first time since she came to Dorne. True, sometimes Sansa was miserable company, when Elia said something similiar to what Arya used to and she was reminded of her sister and Bran and Rickon and Robb and Mother and  _Father,_ but on the whole Sansa enjoyed the times Elia willingly seeked her out for company. Even if she did always insist on trying to teach her to joust, something Sansa always firmly declines. 

In fact, Sansa seems to draw quite a crowd as a newly made Martell. Myrcella constantly gushes about how Sansa must feel so lucky to _officially_ be part of the family and she can't  _wait_ for her wedding to Trystane. Even Prince Quentyn before he left gravitated towards her with stories; they both shared a fondness of old legends and songs although Sansa could not truly say she liked them any longer. She still knew them off by heart though, and they spent many conversations debating which were the best and  _why,_ and which were  _true._ Arianne has been as kind and gracious as ever and-  _gods she hasn't made anything for Arianne! And she'll need thank Prince Doran too for the money Arianne must have spent organising everything-_

Perhaps she should sew something for everyone that attended the Wedding, though that would take moons of work. She sucks on her bottom lip contemplatively, wincing when her stomach cramps. 

"Is it your moonblood?" Elia says unsympathetically through a mouthful of apple. 

"You do not know what it is it like." Sansa says through gritted teeth. "You wait and see. You shall hate riding then." 

"Nothing will make me hate riding." Elia declares. "And now you've brought up the topic I fancy I'll go for a hack. Do you wish to come? We can go out along the sand." 

Sansa crinkles her nose. "And get all dusty and smelly? No thank you. I must needs finish this anyway, and I need to start more for your cousin Arianne and-"

"Quentyn."

Sansa frowns at Elia, fingers stilling. "Why would I stitch something for Quentyn?" 

"I just thought you talked a lot of love songs and stories with him. You needn't be embarassed to like him although I can't see why. Father would let you kiss him. Or- well anything." She winks, flicking her black curls back over one shoulder as she stands.

"I'm not doing anything to him!" Sansa blushes at the mere thought. "He was kind, that much is true, but I don't want to kiss him. I don't want to kiss anyone." 

"Including my Father?" Elia narrows her eyes.

"Including your Father." Sansa sighs, irritation flaring deep in her gut before Elia shrugs and heads to the stables. 

Sansa falls back onto the sofa with a huff, needlework splayed across her aching stomach. She wonders how Mother and Robb are, for she hasn't recieved another letter although she sent one just before the Wedding, and another yesterday describing in great detail what happened. They had to send the elephant back to Volantis that morning, but not after Oberyn had snuck her into the stable it was being kept in to sit atop it. She was taller even then him, and she had giggled like a fool when Oberyn had took her out for a turn around the yard. A queer mount, she had said and Oberyn had only shrugged and said the Targaryen's of old had rode dragons who were the size of castles. 

She lies on her sofa for a while being lazy, tangling her fingers with Stark's paws and giggling when he grumbles. Tully appears near her head and licks her cheek and she cuddles them close to her, their tails wagging against her chest. She could wile away the whole day sat there, the sun streaming through the open windows onto her skin, eating berries from the bowls set on her side table but no, she needs a potion, she simply cannot ignore the cramps any longer.

She leaves Tully and Stark in her chambers chasing each other around in circles and running poor Rhea ragged, trying to think where Oberyn might be. Elia hadn't indicated she knew, nor where her Mother was either and Sansa didn't want to interrupt the pair if they were together. She hovers outside the door of his chambers but she can't hear anything, and when she knocks there's no answer so he must be elsewhere. 

She hopes he's alone wherever he is, for she can't bear for others to know she suffers so with such a... personal problem. Would the Dornish want to know if she bled? If her moonblood was upon her they'd know she wasn't with child and that Oberyn lied... She'll have to draw him away then, but she's sure he won't mind. In fact he seems to like it when she-

She almost walks into the couple kissing.

Her back is to her, but Sansa could recognise Arianne's curls anywhere. She's pressed up against a Kingsguard who never takes his armour off, and Ser Arys is responding eagerly to Arianne's kiss, the way she presses him back flat against the wall. A small whimpers escapes his lips and Arianne groans, surging into him. Arys plays with a lock of Arianne's hair with one hand, twining it around his fingers, and it's the same hand that had punched Sansa's belly, and she blanches and stumbles backwards, fleeing. They're so involved with each other they don't even notice her flee. 

 _How could he? How could he kiss Arianne?_ _How could she let him?_

Tears are spilling down her cheeks before she can comphrehend them, and she keeps her head down as she runs around corners and down corridors and misses the one person she'd been looking for in the first place. Curls wild, skirts flying as her slippers slide on the marble floor, and when Oberyn first shouts her name her feet don't even pause. 

"Sansa?" Oberyn calls after her, panic lacing his voice. "Why are you crying?"

She hears his footsteps loping after her, boots ringing out and she comes to a reluctant standstill sniffing. She tries to gain control of herself, head hanging down over slumped shoulders. 

"Sansa." He says softly, urgently. "What's wrong?"

She hiccups, already feeling the flames of humiliation blazing her cheeks as she slowly turns to meet his gaze. "Nothing."

He looks at her skeptically. He's windswept, dressed in a silk tunic that's dark with sweat, hair sticking to his forehead he wipes away absently, bright eyes locked on her. 

"I- it sounds stupid."

"Nothing from your lips could sound stupid I'm sure." He says fondly, waving away the guards that would come closer. He puts an arm around her shoulders drawing her closer, wiping her tears off her cheeks with the flesh of his thumb.

She inhales wetly, an errant tear dripping off her nose. "I'm just- I need a potion for my moonblood."

"Ah." A knowing look enters his eyes. "I should have realised and made you one this morning, I apologise."

"You needn't do that." 

"I'm not going to let you suffer in pain, am I? My little wife." He clucks about her like a Mother hen, leading her back to her chambers fussing with her hair, smoothing it down and procuring a handkerchief to dab at her still-watering eyes.  

"I didn't mean to cry." She mumbles, laughing shakily as he sits her down and immediately begins pulling out herbs to make the mixture that eased her pain. 

"We all cry over nothing now and then." Oberyn says breezily. "It's good for the soul Sansa, did you know that?"

They sit in companionable silence as Oberyn tinkers about, shaking and stirring the mixture together. He mashes and crushes some ingredients together with a well practised air, and soon she can smell the minty odor as he pours the thick liquid into a goblet.

"Here." He passes it to her and squeezes her fingers when she takes the goblet from him. 

"Thanks." She mutters and finishes it almost at once. She pushes a strand of hair back and watches him as he puts away all his tiny bottles of tinctures. "Where were you?" 

"I was training Daemon in the courtyard and noticed you running past looking distressed." His eyebrows pull together.

"I interuppted your training." Sansa says guiltily. 

"For a good cause. Do you feel better now?" 

She nods. 

"You're sure there isn't anything else?" 

Sansa hesitates, wondering if she should tell him. He is her husband, and she should tell him everything with no secrets- but Arianne was kissing Arys, it was only a  _kiss -_ but he is a Kingsguard member and sworn to celibacy - but Sansa is sure Prince Oberyn's Uncle had a paramour. 

"You can tell me anything." Oberyn says quietly, settling down next to her. 

"I saw Arianne kissing someone." She confesses, looking down at her hands.

"So have I, many times. What of it?" He frowns. "Was anything forced? Did-"

"No. No, I- it was  _Arys._ " She looks around guiltily, as if he himself could hear her in Oberyn's chambers. 

"Ser Arys of the Kingsguard. They were kissing." 

"He has forsaken his vows then. I must say, he held out longer then I thought he would." Oberyn chuckles.

Sansa stares at his face, oblivious to what Ser Arys did to her. Arys was one of the good ones, a Kingsguard member who clearly didn't want to hit her, and she forgives him that truly, even when he avoids her from guilt. Would Arianne want to know? Surely, if she knew what he'd done to her she wouldn't want anything to do with him. She doesn't want to ruin her happiness though, but Ser Arys is breaking his vows and _oh_ that isn't such a surprise at all for what knight kept them? Everyone except Quentyn, who was in denial of it all. 

"He won't be in trouble." Oberyn hastens to assure her as she sits silent. "The King cannot kill someone for a bit of kissing, and Joffrey's reach is minimal here."

Sansa nods slowly.

"You do know that, don't you?" Oberyn squeezes her knee. "He cannot hurt you here."

"I know." Sansa says, even though she is not entirely convinced. Who knew what Joffrey was up to?

"Is something making you uncomfortable? _Someone_?"

She doesn't want to answer- she doesn't know how to. Like her presence reminds him of his guilt, his reminds her only of the painful beatings she endured, the way Joffrey had smiled with sick pleasure. She doesn't blame him, can converse with him fine but- but what if word travels back to Joffrey and he orders Arianne to be beaten or worse? Arys won't want to do it but he hit Sansa, what is to stop him hitting Arianne? Sansa can't bear for her dearest friend to be hurt like she was.

"Sansa?" 

"Yes?" Her eyes flicker to Oberyn's. His eyes burn with curiousity, a deep rooted need to know as she shifts uneasily on the leather sofa, the material sticking to the back of her thighs. 

"I said is someone making you uncomfortable?"

"A little." She whispers, before worry flares in her and she leans forward. "But I am fine truly-" 

"Who?"

Her lips press together in caution as she decides whether to voice the name. One word, and she could be putting Arianne's life in danger, for what if Arys was commanded by Joffrey to do something if anyone found out?

"I'm not going to hurt them, if that's what you think. I just want to know who and why, if you'll tell me. I shan't tell anyone else. I keep my word."

She hesitates, the name on the tip of her tongue. She looks at her husband, who's watching her worriedly, hair tousled and skin shiny from exercise, licking his dry lips. He had kept his word hadn't he? On their wedding night, when he didn't touch her. Everytime he bought her something new, to help her not fear him. Help him trust him, and he is her husband now. So, maybe-

"Ser Arys." 

She exhales shallowly. She cannot takes the words back now and must live with them, and she looks at him appealingly.

"You can't tell anyone." 

Oberyn frowns. "Has he done anything to you?" 

"No." Not since they arrived in Dorne, anyway.

Oberyn watches her carefully for a moment before nodding, deep in thought as he scratches his chin dark with stubble.

"I made you a gift." She recalls suddenly. "To say thank you, for- for the other night. It's in my chambers, I'll go get it."

She leaves before he can try to pry anything else from her.

* * *

"I love it." Oberyn tells her a while later, staring at the sewing of him in his wedding finery. She had spent ages agonising over if his expression was exactly right, and she was going to add herself too but thought it might be too vain. 

"Oh do you really?" Sansa says with relief, a smile playing on her lips. "I'm glad."

"I shall put it here, see." He places it on his dresser near his bed. "A place of honour, but you seem to have forgotten the lovely girl who was standing next to me."

She blushes, looking down at her feet to try and stop the prickle of heat in her cheeks. "The girl couldn't sew herself, it would be unseemly."

"Of course, my apologies." Oberyn says gracefully. "I shall cherish it anyway, for it is a great piece."  

Her husband has changed out of his clothes from earlier, and Ellaria sits in a chair watching the two of them with a grin, plum lips tilted up.

"Might you sew me next Sansa?" She requests. "You have a natural talent."

"Of course." Sansa indulges her flattery, for Sansa knows many more women who have a better eye for detail. Sansa's hands tremble so much sometimes she couldn't sew if her life depended on it. "I could sew the both of you together. That would be a beautiful piece."  

She could see the pair of them sat together so perfectly, with their olive skin and dark curls, and they're such a good couple. They suit each other so well Sansa feels in the way invited to sit with the pair, the way they tease softly and throw gentle japes at each other, flirt with fluttering eyelashes and raised eyebrows, show affection with kisses and hugs. She is a stranger, an interloper between the two even more as Oberyn's wife, and Oberyn seems to confirm this when he turns his smile from Ellaria to her. 

"I have a job for you Sansa, of the utmost importance if you wish to accept."

"Yes." Sansa says immediately. "I'll help you with anything." 

"I know you will." His eyes twinkle. "The place you stayed at before the Wedding, the Sandship. How did you like it there?"

"It was lovely." Sansa says, recalling the beautiful ivy courtyard and the steps. 

"Lovely, but falling to disrepair sadly. It needs mended to a state that befits the House Martell, but as my brother is so busy ruling Dorne he has had little time to order any work, and as I have my hands full with my wayward daughters and Arianne is planning the next biggest event in Westeros, I and my brother have agreed you may have it." 

Sansa stares at him wide-eyed, eyes flickering to Ellaria waiting for her to laugh and reveal the jape but all she does is grin. She shakes her head as she turns back to Oberyn who's smiling at her shock.

"You can have your own servants to man it, and stay there whenever you desire. Whenever you wish to have a break from me or other people you can escape there and do whatever takes your fancy with no fear. I know the Old Palace is crowded sometimes, so perhaps somewhere quieter might make your life more comfortable?" 

"I can't." Sansa whispers, lip trembling. "Oberyn you give me too much." 

"Nobody in this family is using it at the moment, aside from storing weapons and housing old relics. Trystane and Myrcella will no doubt move in when they are married, but for now you would be doing us a great favour, restoring a former keep of House Martell to glory again." He hands her a thick iron key, laid flat across her palm and he gazes at her steadily. "Will you do us the honour?"

She nods, and her fingers close around the key, decorated with red ribbon in a bow. 

"I won't let you down." She vows.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I'm drowning in uni work at the moment, so this chapter probably isn't as good as what it could be. I'm working on the next one right now though, so it won't be long for an update this time!

Oberyn had granted her however much money she desired to hire people and buy materials to refurnish the Sandship inside and out, and when she raised concerns about  _how_ much coin exactly he brushed aside her worries and said he and his brother would cover the costs. 

It comforts Sansa ever so slightly, for she just can't turn people away; she simply can't. 

Oberyn had sent his squire Daemon to accompany her around Sunspear looking for able workers who would be eager to earn money in temporary service to their new Princess. Everyone is eager to serve her, the only problem is Sansa can't turn anyone away and she now has dozens more workers then she originally planned - and even those she has reluctantly turned down due to age or illness she presses golden dragons into their frail hands all the same. 

"You can't give your coin to everyone." Daemon tells her, as Sansa squeezes the hand of a child who was only around Rickon's age when she'd seen him last. 

Sansa turns to him and scowls. "Yes I can. It's my money, Oberyn said I may spend it how I wish."

The population of Sunspear were not too poor that without her charity they would perish, for all over Westeros there were always people struggling to provide their next meal, but compared to Kings Landing Prince Doran was a far better Prince then Joffrey - he seemed to truly care and provide for his smallfolk as much as he were able, and they adored him in turn. Oberyn too... Oberyn more, most likely.

By the time she's finished trawling around the sandy streets of Sunspear and arrived dusty and exhausted back at the Sandship she has a team of two and thirty, promised a Mother her three children could be part of Sansa's household in some way, and given out all the money she'd had in her purse.

"You'll soon have this place up and running again." Daemon comments wryly as he watches the peasants make their way into their temporary home, chattering nervously as they enter through the front doors flung open in welcome.

"Do you think?" Sansa says anxiously, hair fluttering in the breeze as she turns to look at her husband's squire. He's handsome in the midday sun, and his blue eyes sparkle with warmth when he catches her gaze.

"I know." He says firmly. "We all do."

She looks down at her aching feet, lips tugging on a smile. Funny, how they all have faith in her. She just hopes it is not misplaced and she does everyone proud; she couldn't bear to disappoint them so as a new Princess of Dorne. She runs a hand through her hair thick with dust and licks her cracked lips, gazing at her project wondering where to even begin.   

"Shall we have some lemon water? I feel quite parched." 

"I shall get it myself." Daemon promises. "But first let me accompany you inside."

He holds out an arm and Sansa twines hers around it. He smells of dust and sweat and she can't imagine she smells much better; she must have a bath after lunch. A crystal cold bath with floating satin rose petals and slick oils relaxing the knots in her shoulders... She sighs longingly as she enters the cool shade of the Sandship, and her sigh echoes in the dusty entrance chamber where her team stand before her waiting for instruction. Sansa disentangles herself from Daemon and smiles at them graciously.

"Shall we start with a drink and something to eat?" 

* * *

Her damp hair snakes down her back in the simple plait Zhoe had quickly pulled the strands into after her bath, but Sansa welcomes the cold drops of water that hit the back of her neck and roll down the collar of her dark green and bronze silks. The bronze brings out the blue in her eyes, the olive the ivory of her skin, and she looks up and cringes at the hot sun in the sky above them. The air is thick and the humidity high, the heat sweltering, and Sansa can already feel perspiration beading on her forehead as she consults the list before her she had written the night before in her best letters. Numbers had never been Sansa's strong suit, they had always been Arya's speciality, but Oberyn had promised whatever she wanted to do they would have more then enough to cover it - even if she went wild, he had teased. She doesn't know where to start truly, but she can't let everyone know that so she's scribbled down a few of the most urgent things that needed fixing with no cost whatsoever. 

"I've split you into two teams." Sansa declares, gaze flicking from her parchment to her staff. "One will work outside and the other inside for a day then swap. Unless any of you have any particular skill in an area...?"

She realises her foolish mistake now, for she hadn't even inquired if the people who would work for her had experience in this sort of thing. Obviously she would need to hire professionals for the more elaborate furnishings, but surely they could handle sorting out the garden, tidying the hedges and trimming the bushes, planting new trees and the like? And inside, they could easily paint a wall or two couldn't they? Anyone could do it could they not? Although... well,  _Sansa_ doesn't know how to do those things, and what if-

"You're doing fine." Daemon whispers in her ear and she turns her sweeping gaze to him. When he nods his conviction she tilts her head forward in nervous agreement. Yes, she is. She can do this. She needs to- to make Oberyn proud and more importantly she  _wants_ to do this. She has had enough of destruction; Sansa believes it will be quite nice to watch something slightly damaged be gently helped back to it's former state of grandeur with a bit of love and hard work. 

"So the first thing I want the group working outside to do is to sweep the courtyard obviously, and then wash the walls and statues, the windows. I'm sorry I don't know all your names yet," She looks at them apologetically. "But I promise I'll learn them all soon. Everyone working inside, if we start on the top floor and work our way down that means we won't possibly damage anything that may need moved so if you could start by cleaning the floors too, and the windows. Clearing the cobwebs, dusting, moving the artifacts and furniture to one part of the keep just so we have a general idea of what everything looks like tidy and where everything is so we can figure out what to do next." 

They nod, and obediently go off to their assigned place in silence. Sansa turns to join the tailend of one group before pausing, turning back to her helper.

"Daemon would you mind getting something for me?"

"Whatever you need I shall get, if able." Daemon says, running a hand through his sandy hair and eyeing the peasants that are lining up to take the supplies Rhea and Zhoe hand out. Daemon had bought all the buckets and brushes yesterday while Sansa transported all her belongings over with her maids and Sansa stares up at him gratefully for he does everything she asks with not one complaint.

"The man who originally designed this place is long dead obviously, but I need someone with similiar skills- an artist, to take a look at the place and help create what I want. I'm going to show the designs to Prince Doran first of course, and Oberyn, but- perhaps you know someone Prince Doran has hired maybe?" Sansa says doubtfully, before a spark of inspiration hits her. "Oh! If you found more then one we could each get them to draw a design and then Prince Doran can pick which he likes best!"

Daemon grins. "I best go find some artists then." 

"Thank you." 

"But remember they aren't just pretty pictures."

"Oh I know." Sansa says earnestly. "I just need someone to draw what I have in my head so Prince Doran can see and make any changes. I'd hate for him to dislike it and tear it all down."

"I doubt anyone will dislike your ideas and tear this place down." Daemon says before he heads out, head stooped to avoid the ceiling above the door which was covered with cobwebs. 

Sansa stands for a moment savouring the sounds of people working, doing what she bid with pleasure, and she remembers how Father used to dine with each of his staff on a different night and the strong loyalty they held for him long after- long after his death. Loyal enough to go to war for him with his son as their King, and Sansa closes her eyes as grief sweeps over her. She misses her Father so, and Bran and Rickon too- she shall never see any of them again. She sighs sadly, skittering backwards when the cold nose presses against her ankle. Her eyes widen and she chokes on a laugh as she looks down to see her dog staring up at her with bright eyes and a wagging tail. 

"Tully." Sansa says softly, and scoops her up. She cuddles her close, twining her fingers in her thickset curls. Tully licks her cheek with a slobbery tongue just like Lady used to and Sansa giggles. 

"Where is your brother?" She asks, staring into Tully's little face. "Annoying the workers in the garden I wager." 

She lets Tully down when she reaches the brick patio that leads out of the double doors in the reception room, and her dog scampers down the steps with her claws scrabbling to pounce on Stark who, as predicted was getting in the way. Sansa lifts her skirts an inch and observes the work as she walks the length of the garden. Already the place is looking a bit cleaner, a bit brighter. The garden is small but secretive, the sound of the rolling waves lapping the shore on three sides of the keep a relaxing hum in the background as Sansa ambles down the sandy path. There's only three trees in a far away corner, dark gnarled bark peeling in the sun, branches hung low heavy with ripe blood oranges and creating a circle of shade Sansa knows she'll lounge under. Fat bees fly from one flower to another, and Sansa picks a red one in full bloom and sniffs it, twirling the stem around her fingers. The petals are silky and she brushes it against her cheek watching her hired hands work.    

"You're doing very well." She praises one of the women nearby, who's scrubbing at the brickwork like it's done her a personal offence. "Thank you so much. Prince Doran will be so pleased."

"It is a pleasure to serve my Prince." She says, slightly breathless, smiling up at Sansa. "And Princess." 

Sansa crouches down beside her, careful to avoid the soap. "What's your name?" 

"Alia."

"Have you ever been here before Alia?" Sansa asks. 

"Once." Alia grunts, soap suds coating her knuckles and spilling out over the brickwork. She tosses her head back, flicking a dark lock behind one ear. "Many years ago."

"What was it like then?" Sansa asks curiously, hopping daintily over the wet patch and sorting her skirts to perch on a half-crumbled step. The stone is cold on the flesh of her thighs, but weeds shoot up through the cracks where the brick has faded away and she tugs at one absently as another worker shuffles next to Alia and digs right in between each crevice to root out weeds and bugs that recide there, silver tool glinting in the sun. 

"Lively. Prince Oberyn was to live here when he married and had children." Alia grins at her. "Well, he had children a long time ago and now you're to live here." 

Sansa flushes. "You said... you said Oberyn was to live here. Why did he leave such a place to ruin?" 

Alia sighs mournfully. "T'was after Princess Elia's death. When he came back to Dorne after travelling for so long he hadn't the heart to leave his brother. Even now when Prince Doran goes to the Water Gardens he summons his brother every fortnight or so." 

"It's good that they're so close." Sansa murmurs.

She thinks back to her and Arya who were forever bickering; she can't ever imagine moving in to live with Arya. She'd have been a mess, her clothes strewn across her bedchamber and Sansa smiles when she remembers how her sister had tried to show her how Nymeria was trained to pick them up. She wasn't - just like her owner. 

"Oberyn loves his family." Alia says simply. "He loves you too." 

"No he doesn't." Sansa explains. "He only married me to-" To stop Joffrey from beating her, but what did the rest of Dorne think? To have a young wife known for her beauty? To sire trueborn children at last? To get a claim for the North through the King's sister? 

"To treat you well." Alia wrings out her cloth, weathered eyes meeting Sansa's. "We have heard rumours of King Joffrey's behaviour. They say Stannis almost beat him in battle a few moons ago. A shame he didn't." She tuts. 

"You can't say that." Sansa whispers, eyes flickering around in case anyone overheard. "It's treason."

"Say what?" Alia winks and starts to whistle, turning away to continue cleaning. 

Sansa remembers the pain that flared in her belly when the fists slammed into the soft flesh, when the bruises throbbed, the way Ser Arys's sad and solemn face avoided her streaming eyes as he did his duty, and now he stays here in Dorne kissing Arianne.

If she knew what he had done to her would she still kiss him? How could she even stop her?   


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I apologise soo much for the long break between updates but I'm done with university now for Christmas :)

The silvery tones of pearls and shells dancing in the breeze bring a smile to Sansa's lips. The pearls sparkle iridescent in the sun, the sand on the peach shells glittering, and the way they sparkle and ripple back and forth, around and around make everyone who watches them dizzy. They chime away in the background as Sansa watches her keep grow around her. Plants every shade of green with huge silky leaves begin to grow in tangled clusters, vines climbing up wooden structures in swooping tendrils to create a small tunnel of shade surrounded by blood oranges and blossom that delicately fall to the floor. Above the low rise and fall of the crashing waves the sound of trickling water can be heard, gurgling and bubbling into a fountain from the brand new water feature. The smooth bronze in the shape of a sun and spear is quite magnificent, and Sansa had agonised for hours over which man to hire for the job for this was to be one of the most important pieces of the royal keep. 

She stands and admires it now, the way the sunlight spills over its edges, the way the water falling from the spear tip into the circle of water below is every colour of a rainbow. 

"Daemon cleaned out the pond for me." Sansa giggles at the memory of her husband's sworn shield stood in the pond with his breeches rolled up to his knees, grimacing. "With some help. He said we should have some fish of course, so he's gone down to the docks to inquire if any fishermen would mind bringing back live fish to shore." 

She imagines the request will garner more than a few queer looks, but when Daemon says he's on orders from the new Princess of Dorne surely they'll quickly obey. Everyone else has been ever so keen to help her, and don't complain whatever she asks of them. It is... strange, for Sansa is sure they'll say anything and they'll not speak their unhappiness. It reminds her of Joffrey, of how the court ignored her beatings and bruisings for an easier life and she purses her lips. She wants her people to love her, truly love her. To be so close they can confide their problems for she will help them best she can, she will give them whatever they need. Why she had employed three children to work for her because their Mother had recently lost her husband, and she didn't regret the decision. Sandria and Aliona were fine handmaidens under Rhea and Zhoe's tutelage, and Elys was acting as a squire to anyone who needed him, fetching objects and delivering messages to others. 

Oberyn nods silently beside her. He's quiet today. Usually when she walks him around and shows him every new discovery made or problem fixed from his last visit he offers his own suggestions and advice and opinions, but today... Today he looks sad. His eyes are weary, his voice sparsely heard, and he seems to not hear most of her quickly faltering speech. 

"And... and he said Arianne's friend Garin is from the Greenblood and they might have different fish there that might suit." She continues tentatively, trailing off and brushing a smidge of soil off the hem of her dress. The culprit is nearby, but they both look so innocent, limpid eyes glowing and tails wagging, tongues lolling from their mouths that she can't scold them too badly when they make a mess of her - or her garden. 

Her husband is dressed in all his Princely garb today, and he'd come clattering into the courtyard so loud everyone heard him and looked as he tossed his reins to the nearest person and strode up the steps to her, boots ringing on the freshly cleaned tiles. Eyes pinned upon hers, and she'd blushed as his hands had gripped her shoulders. She thought he was going to kiss her in front of everyone, dip her back and twine her locks in his fingers and slide his lips upons hers but he merely heaved a sigh and tried to get his mouth to work once, twice, while Sansa asked if he desired a drink of fresh lemon water. 

Something is weighing on his mind most badly, and while Sansa tries hard as she might to distract him prattling on in delight about her new lemon tree saplings she'd helped press into the ground herself, he stays melanchony. She should offer him comfort as a wife, but when he is reluctant to share she doesn't want to force the issue. He won't confide in her anyhow, he turns to Ellaria for that. Sansa believes it to be that anyhow, but when he'd downed his drink in one gulp and Sansa had brightly offered him a turn around the garden he had laced his fingers through hers and squeezed before gently setting her palm upon his arm, letting her lead the way out. Even now he is reluctant to let her stray too far from him, and she frowns unhappily at him, small hand splayed on his tense bicep. 

"If there is something amiss Prince Oberyn I would have you confide in me, if you wish. Mayhaps it will lighten your heart, to tell another your worries." 

"I am so sorry Sansa." He murmurs, dark eyes finally meeting hers. "I must talk to you in private."

A shiver of forboding crawls down Sansa's spine she shakes away with an airy toss of her head. 

"We can go to my solar. The designer shall be here in a few days to help decorate the rooms. I cannot wait for you and Prince Doran to see what I've designed."

She can't resist the small grin that stretches across her mouth, for she had requested something to be added unbeknownst to the pair but she just  _knows_ they'll love it. And if they don't - well, it does no good to think of that. She will have to worry about it later... but that will be too late-

She shakes the panic away in annoyance, as if it were a fly buzzing she could flick away and be done with it. So tiresome and ever constant, and it is second nature for her now to deliberate and worry, her belly knotting with fear even though she is sure Prince Doran would not treat her the way Joffrey did, and that Oberyn would not punish her even if it were her fault. She wishes it could just go away, that her trials in Kings Landing be forgotten - but Father had died a traitors death there, had gone to his death labelled a criminal, and she shouldn't forget that. She can't forget that. Father's head _rolling-_

Her hand quivers upon Oberyn's arm and she renews her efforts at smiling. Forget what happened, it's in the past. She cannot change it no matter how she wished to. Somedays it is so hard though...

"Wine." She declares, skirts swishing as they walk up the steps into the keep. "We should have wine. The best Dorne have to offer."

She has a feeling they shall need it. 

* * *

They sit across from each other in silence. Her solar is near the top of the keep, and the sunlight warms Sansa's back as she nods at Elys to place the plate of fruit to one side as she moves the parchements of plans into a drawer. He pours two glasses of wine with a trembling hand, the dark crimson sloshing up the sides of the goblets and Sansa smiles reassuringly up at him.

"Thank you Elys."

"It is my pleasure Princess Sansa and Prince Oberyn." He mumbles, ducking his head down so his curls disguise his blush. He hastily leaves, and Sansa plucks a fat grape and pops it in her mouth. Juicy, and she swallows and reaches for another before taking a sip of wine and regarding her husband with curiousity.

"Sansa." Her husband begins. He hasn't touched his wine, hasn't shaved either, and he runs a hand across the black and silver threaded stubble of his pointed chin. He is so hesitant to speak, looking like he has aged years since she last saw him, and she leans in closer to him in silent solidarity. He can trust her, he can tell her anything, _anything_ and she would keep it locked deep within her heart for no other to find.  

“Sansa, my sweetling. My little wife.” He pauses, before rising to stride around the desk that separated them. She looks up at him startled, breath catching in her throat as he kneels down, leather boots creaking to grasp her hands. The waft of his perfume, sickly spicy up her nose makes her want to faint, and this is so unlike him, his demeanour so serious and eyes pained-

No.

Apprehension makes her mouth sour, the hairs on her arms standing up and she swallows thickly, quickly. She tries to pull away, twisting her suddenly sweaty hands back and forth, fumbling within his grip. 

Oberyn's lips part, trying to find the words, and Sansa doesn't want to know his news, why he looks so sad. Sad for _her,_ in pain because of  _her,_ distracted because of the news for  _her-_

“What I am going to tell you…” He pauses again, licks his dry and cracked lips, sighs softly. “I shall get it over with. Sansa…” His voice is so gentle, and she can’t look into his open face, creased with sympathy. She can't. 

No.

She doesn't want to hear. She doesn't want to shatter the tremulous peace stretched paper thin over her broken heart. 

She looks over his shoulder, out of the window. The sky is so blue and bonny, the sun warm and golden. There’s a breeze from the sea that tastes of salt, and it stirs the greenery and the vibrant flowers she’s had planted, and if she listens closely she can hear the hustle and bustle of Sunspear, the carefree peasants. 

“Your Mother and brother have sadly died.”

It feels wrong, out of place, for death to be mentioned in a place so beautiful and serene. She watches a gull fly above them, a spot of white in the sky, its long wings flapping and it has not a care in the world. She wishes she were that gull. She wishes she could fly away; she just doesn’t know where she would go. Winterfell is gone and Dorne only brings her  _grief-_

“I am so sorry Sansa." 

She drags her gaze back to her lord husband. His hands are clutching hers now limp in her lap though he squeezes tight enough to bruise. Queer, that she isn't scared of his grip in hers anymore. She can barely feel it in fact, and he doesn't need to anchor her down to her chair for she needs to leave, there is so much left to do she can't possibly sit. She goes to stand, and Oberyn rocks backwards warily, rolling up onto his feet with one hand oustretched towards her.  _  
_

"Sansa." 

“I need to finish the garden.”

* * *

She had volunteered herself to plant the seeds, and she presses them into the dirt with firm fingertips. She follows Alfyn's instructions exactly, and when she's finished the neat rows she has dirt under her fingernails and mud sullies her skirts but she can't bring herself to care. 

"What next?" She asks breathlessly, flicking away a curl that falls in front of her sweaty face. Dusk has fallen, and they are awash in shades of amber and gold. They are like statues, Madi and Alfyn and Cyrenna and Galbart. Some of her workers, her faithful help who do everything she ask with no complaints - only now they hesitate. 

"What's wrong?" She frowns as they shift uneasily from foot to foot, peering up at the darkening sky, away over the walls of the Sandship to Sunspear. "Do you not wish to work for me anymore?"

"No, no Princess Sansa." Cyrenna says quickly, dark green eyes widening. Stray hairs not caught in her plait flutter in the wind as she takes a hesitant step forward. "Only it's past the time we usually work. I have to get back to my son."

Sansa's hand slips and the bucket she holds once filled with fertilizer falls to the floor. It clatters unbearably loud in the relative silence of the night and she lurches forward to pick it back up. "Well you may leave then, of course. I apologise I did not realise the time. I shall put these away and go to bed." 

"Let me help-"

Sansa shies away from Galbart's hand, assuring him she is capable of putting a bucket away. They bid goodbye and leave her standing there drenched in sweat, short bursts of air scraping past her lips, fingers clenched on the handle of the bucket. She makes her way across the garden guided by starlight, and carefully puts it in its proper place inside the outbuilding.

Her hands tremble as she unfolds the crinkled piece of parchment, squinting to read it in the absence of light. The letters blur in front of her, hands twitching with the need to do something. She's planted the scant remaining seeds and there's nothing left to do. Not until tomorrow, and she scrunches the parchment up in one hand with her breath rattling in her throat. The dust makes her eyes wet.

She'll plan then.

She'd sent Daemon to contact the decorator earlier that afternoon, and he'd be coming in two days to paint. She's comissioned a few paintings especially and she shall have to remind him not to forget. The glass maker too, she needs to decide what colour glass would be best for one of the windows. The image she's picked will please Prince Oberyn and Doran at least, no matter the colour of glass. A gift to them, to show how much they mean to her. How much she appreciates what they've done. Oberyn had left as soon as she'd gone to the gardens, and Sansa had assured him it would be finished soon, it would all be finished soon.

She picks at her dinner when served as requested in her bedchamber, for it tastes bland and she isn't hungry anyhow. She chases a piece of fish around the burnished gold plate with her fork, staring into space. She supposes her husband will have told everyone at the palace by now... Hysteria begins to well up within her, the cutlery in her hand shaking, and she takes a gulp of wine to displace the lump in her throat. Not now. Not in front of everyone. 

"It isn't to your liking?"

Sansa flinches and looks up. Rhea stands hovering nearby, a slight smile playing on the corners of her lips. Sansa wishes she could smile like that. Be so carefree so as to smile if she simply disliked something instead of constantly cursing herself for her fault in taste, for her stupidness, for her-

"No." She pushes the plate away from her, every muscle tense. "No, it isn't."

Her teeth ache as she grits them, eyes prickling and aching as she converses with Rhea and Zhoe for a while, Stark and Tully prowling around her rooms restless before coming to rest near her, laying their heads on her lap. She'd picked a dark blue dress today because it complimented her eyes, but now she wants to tear it off her as quickly as possible. 

She allows Sandria and Aliona to bathe her, tentatively scrubbing at her skin to get all the dirt off. Their little hands dare not press too hard against her skin, and Zhoe eventually takes over with no hesitation. Her harsh relentless scouring leaves Sansa's skin red and burning but she welcomes the ache. She lets Sandria and Aliona dress her into her nightgown too, though she doesn't feel much like sleeping and when Zhoe's finished plaiting her hair she returns back to her work despite Rhea having prepared her bed.

Sansa asks them to stay and talk to her a while, of matters of no importance. Just- think of something else, not that-

Rhea and Zhoe take turns praising her work, inquiring about what other stuff she has in store for them all, how all the other servants have agreed, Sandria and Aliona included, that she is a most fine employer. Eventually her maids begin to flag, and as discreet as they are hiding their yawns behind their hands she dismisses them with a murmur of thanks. Finally, she is alone.

_She's all alone._

Her hair shines a dull red in the candlelight as she hunches over her desk. It's not absurdly late, she can work for hours yet. She writes out a letter of thanks for Daemon to give to the fishermen who will catch the fish for her pond, and writes a reminder to herself that she is to pay them a few golden Dragons in payment for their service. She decides on red and amber for the stained glass display, with perhaps other colours on the outskirts if she could afford them. She'd imposed on herself a budget to stop herself from being too extravagant, and she believes to be nearing it. If she could just work out this simple sum...

Her head aches and she rubs at her temples as she mouths out calculations, nib of the quill identing the parchment as she scribbles out her half-forged sums. She has no idea where she got that number from, but she must needs have the price of each pane of glass, but different colours cost different amounts and it isn't any good. She's useless at sums, that was always Arya's speciality and now Arya isn't here. Sansa throws her quill aside as a sob bursts from her lips. Arya isn't here, and Father isn't here, and Bran and Rickon aren't, and now Robb and Mother- 

_Robb. Mother. Both dead._

A strangled keen works it way through Sansa's lips and she presses trembling fingers to her mouth as she digs her elbows into the wood of the desk to try and gain some control. If anyone heard... Oh, what does it matter? She's all alone after all. Her heart aches and she tears at the loose material of her nightgown as if to yank it out, eyes overspilling with tears.

Dead. Everyone dead now except her.

Hadn't she expected it? Foolish, to keep up her hopes that she would reunite with her Mother and Robb again. Oberyn said that Joffrey wouldn’t hurt her here but he was _wrong._ Everything else in her life had been destroyed, why not the last members of her family?

She gasps for breath hysterically, white-knuckled hands yanking the drawer of her desk open and fumbling to get to the half written letter buried deep within. She rips it into shreds and staggers to scatter the pieces to the fire, for Mother was never going to read it now, and it was foolish to think she would write back after her Wedding when she was concerned with Robb's war. 

_Robb..._

Robb was supposed to come to Dorne and meet Oberyn, hug her tight and whisper of his deeds and valour in battle before taking her back home for a long visit. Robb, who had dutifully played with dolls to please his younger sister, Robb who had given her piggy backs while she squealed into his ear to beat Arya and Jon, Robb who had always been the knight ready to slay the beast in their games, who had always rescued her from any trouble. Not anymore though, and _Mother.._. 

Mother who always brushed her hair and whispered songs and calmed her when she was upset. She would never see her smile again, feel the reassurance of her hugs, the proud whispers and cheek kisses and Robb would never shout her name when he wanted her to watch him in the courtyard, and they'd never dance together, Sansa instructing him under her breath because he always seemed to step on her toes while Mother looked on glowing with love and gods it  _hurt._ It hurts  _so much-_

Her bedchamber door opens and she half-turns, lifting her head weakly trying to form the words to convince her maids that she was okay truly, she just-

"Oberyn?" She whispers hoarsely, lips wobbling, eyes shining as her husband strides up to her with his face drawn in determination, cloak billowing out behind him. 

She gasps when he wraps himself tight against her, body pressed against hers. His arms are strong and unyielding around her waist, and she surrenders to him willingly. Swooning into him, legs half crumpling in grief, and she would have fallen to her knees if not for his iron grip, anchoring her to him. A sob bursts from her chapped lips as more tears pour down her wet cheeks scrubbed raw, and she presses her face into his chest as they sink to the ground in unison. They are a mess of velvet cloak and silk nightgown pooling around them on the floor, and she clings to him desperately. He's so solid and warm and  _alive,_ his breath hot on her neck, fingers threading through her hair as he cradles the back of her head against him, and everyone is dead-

Not Oberyn though, and she presses herself closer to him, the thud of his heart reverberating in her ear.   

"You'll be okay Sansa." He murmurs fiercely as she clings to him, fingers curled into the velvet of his cloak. "One day, you'll be okay." 

Slowly, after countless minutes, her sobs cease, and she's left with a raw throat and burning eyes, damp cheeks and liquid limbs. She's embarassed he's seen her cry so, but she cannot prise her body away from his even if she desired to. She sinks further still into his embrace, wet cheek pressed into the hollow of his neck. He smells of spices, of oranges and sunshine, and she is so drained she can't find any words to excuse him - for he surely didn't mean to spend the whole night with her as she cried into his arms like a stupid child. She shifts ever so slightly to stop the needling of her stiff legs, head pressing further into his chest. It's silent except for his steady breathing and her harried gasps, nothing to see but his dark outline in the shadows. The fire exstingushed long ago, the rest of the keep silent. They could be the last two people alive. Sansa would be content with that. Who else is she to be closest to now if not her family? As long as she was not alone... 

She blinks delicately, eyelashes heavy with salt teardrops. She is so drained, even though she wants to cry until her tears drown her and she's reunited with her family once more. The night seems to hover indefinitely on one long note of serenity amongst the grief, where the world is shades of midnight blue and indigo, a cool dawn sweeping the horizon where Sansa has no thoughts of despair in her numb brain, where Oberyn is silent but tender and close. A moment of suspended tranquilty, cold acceptance creeping over Sansa's skin in the magic early hours of the morning as Oberyn begins to sing ever so softly to her. She can feel the words on her skin as his breath washes over, lips trembling on one cheekbone. A Dornish lullaby to ease one into peaceful dreams. 

She must fall asleep, for when she next opens her eyes she's tucked into bed, Tully and Stark sprawled across her thighs, the sun streaming in through the stained glass windows. She sniffs thickly, congested and confused, but her confusion fades when she realises her skin is touching skin, and Oberyn is sat beside her, back pressed against the headboard watching over her. His profile is illuminated by the sun, and she squints up at him, shuffling herself up, hands fisting into silk pillows. 

"You should break your fast. I've had oats and honey brought up, and some bread or fruit if that is not to your taste."

"Thank you." She whispers, staring down at her fingers playing with the tassals of a pillow. "You didn't have to do that."

"Ahh you're right. But I wanted to, and I always do what I want." Oberyn shrugs, a small encouraging smile gracing his lips.

She wishes she could smile for him, but she can't seem to turn her mouth upwards in response, and she slips out of bed silently. She pads across bare footed to the table where the food is spread out in wait, numerous dishes she can't possibly all consume by herself. She raises her head to look over at Oberyn, mussed hair tumbling over her shoulders.

"Do you not wish to join me?" 

"If you wish it I shall not refuse." He slides into the seat that he'd hanged his cloak on before she'd awoken and loads his plate up with relish. Scooping up steaming boiled oats and stirring in honey, throwing berries on top.

She wants to ask him why he came, how he knew she would be hurting alone, why he stayed and didn't slip away while she slept. Instead she merely nibbles on a piece of watermelon, the sticky juice dripping down her chin and fingers. He offers her a handkerchief, she dabs at her mouth, and they begin to break their fast in a comfortable silence. 

And somehow in between it all, when Oberyn urges her to eat more and talks about what fun things they can do later that day and the day after and the day after that, Sansa's hand finds his and stays there. 


	17. Chapter 17

It's so  _hard,_ to force herself out of bed every day.

The effort it takes to get dressed and bathe herself tires her, and she floats through days only half-aware of what is happening around her. Oh she behaves as courteous as ever, always a kind word for someone, a question about someone else’s life to distract the way her own was collapsing. She smiles prettily with thin chapped lips, bright eyes feverish in their charm and all Sansa can do is _go go go_ , until its night and she falls into nightmares. 

“Sansa, you can talk to me. You needn’t keep your grief to yourself. If not me, someone else you're close to.” Oberyn tells her patiently, face so heartbreakingly kind as he kneels before her.

On his knees before her, his devotation seemingly runs so deep, and sometimes she believes he cries for her, for her family's misfortune and how it reminds him of his own dead sibling. To think she once feared this man! 

How does she tell him she's scared if she starts crying again she won’t ever stop, and she’ll be broken into a thousand and one pieces? She tries so hard, all the time, but sometimes when she's laid in her bedchamber with her limbs weighed down to the bed she wonders why she ever bothers. Every time she attempts to get better something knocks her back down. Who will die next? Surely Sansa will outlive everyone and spend the rest of her long life in solitude on a scorched earth devoid of any other. Why do the Gods hate her so? What has she done? 

She feels like she's suffocating, the dry Dornish air worming its way into her lungs and strangling her. Her limbs move so slow and sluggishly, and when she looks in the mirror she has bags under her eyes, lines where there were none and a glassy look in her far-away eyes. She is haunted by ghosts, constantly. Elia reminds her of her sister, and she can't bear to spend more than an hour or two with Oberyn and Ellaria, Arianne and the Sand Snakes without wanting to cry at their closeness, their love and affection for each other. 

Her husband is good to his word, when he'd told her of all the delightful things they would do together. He takes her to mummers plays held in dusty taverns where no one sees their faces, and Sansa sits swallowing sawdust, the stench of beer burning her nostrils as she claps automatically when the macabrely dressed up mummers cartwheel and dance around in front of her, wigs falling off and scenes so painfully over the top in their absurdity she fails to raise a smile despite Oberyn's whispers. On another day he takes her to the beach and they sit and watch the crashing waves surrounded by food and drink, the shrill cries of the birds above them piercing Sansa's skull as she reclines back on a scratchy horse blanket. One day he throws a ball and invites any and all of Sunspear who desire to come, and people spill out of the Old Palace as he spins her around and around until she grows dizzy. She appreciates the gesture, thanks him softly with a hand slipped into his, and retires to her room whilst the wine still flows fast.  

Life goes on.

Not for the rest of her family, but for Sansa days drag by, one after the other and then another one.

* * *

A week passes, then another, trapped in an unrelenting cycle. She is disturbed only by a letter with the Lannister seal adorned with wax. It spends Sansa into a spiral.

The scroll wobbles in her hands as she battles within herself whether to read it or merely throw it in the fire. What if it is important? What if it's summons back to Kings Landing? Or... mayhaps Margaery has sent condolences with her betrothed's seal? The last thought, dubious as it may be, gnaws at her and she slowly plucks up the courage to peel off the wax and unroll the parchment. 

She reads it. 

She has even worse nightmares. 

She lurches upwards gasping for breath, hands clawing at her neck. Sweat plasters her hair to her forehead, her nightgown stuck to her skin rough with goosebumps and she sobs wildly, kicking back her bedcovers. Her blood-curdling shriek comes out in splutters and dry-heaves, and Oberyn stumbles to his feet and practically sprints over from where he had been dozing in a chair across her bedchamber. She looks up at him wide-eyed, choking on the words she tries to form as tears gush down her blazing cheeks. He holds her as she gradually calms down, rocking her back and forth rubbing her back as he whispers it was just a nightmare, just bad dreams. 

"No." She chokes, and more tears roll down and over her lips, the salt only making her aware of how parched she is, how her voice rasps and her throat aches. "It's true." Her voice breaks and she sniffs, inhaling sharply as she swipes at her overfilling eyes. 

"What's true?" 

"I got a letter." She whispers, body wracked with shivers. He holds her closer as he sighs softly, adjusts his arms around her and peers down.

"From  _them._ " His mouth sets into a thin line of revulsion and anger. 

She nods quickly. "Joffrey wrote he heard from Lord Frey that they cut off Robb's head and sewed on Grey Wind's. His _direwolf_. And they slit my Mother's throat and threw her naked body in the river to rot. He says - he says she went mad and clawed her face bloody." 

"Lannister lies." Oberyn soothes her as she heaves, smoothing her tangled hair. "They were too craven to be bested on the battlefield and had to resort to treachery and lies.”

“Robb was the best.” Sansa agrees, voice breaking on a sob.  She brings her hand to her face to wipe away the tears that overspill, sleeve damp. _Do you think he suffered husband? Do you think it hurt when he died? What hurt more, the pain of the blade or the betrayal? And Mother, oh Mother what did they do to Mother before they stripped her naked?_ The thought terrorizes Sansa, locks her limbs tight in distress.

“How can people be so cruel?” She asks after a while, when her heart has stopped racing and she is limp and exhausted, body heavy against his. She feels more then hears Oberyn's weary sigh against her cheek, his fingers stroking her hair. 

“The world can be a very cruel place.”

Stark and Tully slowly creep up to the bed towards them, nose nudging Sansa's hip. She scratches the top of Tully's head with one hand, the soft curls providing a bit of comfort. Stark begins to crawl up Oberyn's arm and Sansa lets loose a watery laugh when he grumbles and tries to shake him off. Her husband talks to her a while of matters of no importance, idle conversation that washes over her in heavy waves as she settles back down into her pillows. He talks of old Princesses of Dorne that fought out every enemy that dared to try and invade, of the old Princess Daenerys who created a water gardens of peace for any child in Dorne highborn or peasant, and she slowly falls into deep, dreamless sleep, cheek pressed on Oberyn's chest, fingers splayed across her dogs curled up beside her nestled in as close as possible.

* * *

"The Water Gardens." 

"My Prince?" Sansa says dully, slowly looking away from the window where she watched the workers potter about outside. She was attempting to sew but had gotten distracted by memories. Her husband has his elbow propped on the table, considering her through half-lidded eyes as he sips wine.  

"I'll take you to the Water Gardens. I've said before how much you shall like it there." He smiles encouragingly. "Lots of other children to splash about with, and nobody can disturb you there. You can relax and be free to do whatever you desire."

"I shall go wherever you wish me to." Sansa murmurs, sliding her gaze down to her hands clamped tight together betraying no fear. "But I haven't finished decorating the Sandship." 

Failure shakes her insides, a bitter taste in her mouth as she swallows, but Oberyn's smile never falters. 

"You deserve a rest. You've done more to transform this place in a few weeks then anybody has in years. It will still be standing when you return."

Sansa throughly disbelieves that; considering her luck lately she'll return to nothing but a shell of ruins from a comet blast or out of control fire. A freak hurricane that destroys everything she'd gone to pains to fix, just like everything.

"But my workers." She protests weakly. "They'll have nothing to do."

"I'll put them to tasks." Her husband shrugs. "Or I can pay them whilst they stay at home and have some time off just like you. Will that soothe you?"

She nods, a faint bob of the head. "When I am to leave?"

"I am not banishing you Sansa. Let me make this clear." His voice laced with adoration, soft and so gentle she can hardly bear it and when he slowly walks towards her, hair mussed from the night before with no attempts to look more Princely, his eyes never stray from hers. 

"It does no good to grieve alone." He slowly takes one of her hands with his own, warm calloused fingers entwining with her slim ones. "Alone with your own thoughts for too long causes more harm then good. I learnt that the hard way."  

"What did you do?" She asks, a tiny flicker of curiousity alighting deep within her chest as he squeezes her fingers tight. He half-snorts with self-disgust, shaking his head so the ends of his hair flutter back and forth. 

"I drank myself stupid for weeks. There are whole days, weeks, that I can't remember."

"Does it frighten you? That you can't remember what happened?"

"It did, when I realised what a fool I had been. People grieve in different ways, but after a while you have to start living again. If not for yourself, then for them."  

Sansa's eyes water. Hadn't she promised her brothers the same when she first heard of their deaths moons ago? But Oberyn had his brother Doran, and Ellaria and his children and Sansa had nobody to call her own. She has to live for herself then, just herself. But is she worth it?

"I know it won't be easy, and you'll always have days where you can think of nothing but them, but you can live with the pain."

"I know." Sansa sucks in a deep breath, because she was sat in front of him wasn't she? Out of bed, fully dressed, conversing with relative ease despite the gaping wound in her chest. "I'm - I'm still alive." 

"That's right. You're still breathing. Anything broken can be fixed. You just need to figure out how best to do that for yourself." Oberyn smiles, eyes crinkling in the corners and a rush of affection heats Sansa's insides. He is kind to her, always without fail... 

She lets her head fall to rest against the planes of his chest, the button of his doublet digging into her cheek as she hugs him tight. Arms wrapped around his waist, head ducked and eyes closed, and she finally feels safe in his embrace.

* * *

"I'm off to the Water Gardens." Sansa mutters, eyes pinned to her feet as Arianne gently hugs her. 

"So my Uncle told me this morning." Arianne's smile is too bright with concern, teeth glinting as her eyes sweep over Sansa's face when she steps back. She flicks a curl out of her eyes and graps Sansa's shoulders. "You will like it there, I promise. I hope it brings you as much peace and joy as it does my Father." 

"I'll tell him you are thinking fondly of him." Sansa finally meets her gaze. "I just came to visit you before I left, for I don't know how long I'll be there."  

"You are too sweet." Arianne says softly. "But you know you can always visit. It's only an hours ride." 

"Oberyn says it will be good for me."

"It will be." Arianne squeezes her shoulder before withdrawing, silver rings glinting as she runs a hand through her coal curls.  

Sansa takes a quick inhale of breath, shaky hands clamping together. She has to tell her now, before she loses her nerve. The whole reason she came, and now her tongue feels tied and she's so  _tired,_ she just wants to sleep for an age and maybe never wake up. Her head swims, sweat spotting the back of her neck and she swallows thickly. 

"There's something else I need to tell you." Her voice is strained and fast, for she just wants the worries to leave her and never return. 

The letter from Joffrey has only brought the memory of her beatings to the forefront of her mind, and she needs to warn Arianne before she leaves for a while. She seems alright, no bruises marring her olive skin, and Arys seems kind and gentle as ever, but if Joffrey can send a letter and kill her parents what would stop him from ordering a Kingsguard to harm a Princess of Dorne to inflict more pain on Sansa? She would not put it past him; he seems to thrive on her misery. Sansa could not bear it if Arianne were possibly harmed because of her, because of Joffrey's fixation on her, and Sansa takes a deep breath.

"Ser Arys... I saw you kissing, and I fear for you." She says, biting down on her lip. The image of Arianne bent double gasping for breath as blood streams down her face makes Sansa's stomach turn with revulsion. 

"You needn't fear for me." Arianne lets loose a small laugh of surprise. "Ser Arys does whatever I wish. I have him firmly under thumb." Arianne's eyelashes flutter coyly, the arch of her eyebrows and the proud set of her lips suggesting all sorts. and cold dread spreads through Sansa for how can she not see? 

"He is Joffrey's sworn Kingsguard. If he is displeased, he may seek to hurt you through him."  

"Arys wouldn't raise his hand to me."Arianne snorts dismissively. "He hasn't the balls."

"He did to me." Sansa finally admits with a whisper.

The rush of relief it gives her in voicing the words makes her shiver, and she takes a deep breath and stares helplessly at Arianne who only laughs in the face of danger without a care.

"Prince Joffrey commanded him to hit me and he did it, even though he hated to do so."The words spill from Sansa's lips as if a dam has been broken. "If he is commanded to do something to you he'll do it. He'll hate himself afterwards but he'll still do it... I just thought I should warn you before I go." 

"Sansa I- I'm sorry, I didn't know." Arianne hastens to apologise, sympathy pooling in her dark eyes and Sansa doesn't want her pity.

She just wants to  _leave._ Trust that Arianne makes the right choice and let Sansa wipe her hands and be done of it all. She wants Arianne safe and sound, she wants her nerves not to be shreds, she wants - she wants a lot of things she'll never get. 

Sansa nods thin-lipped, eyes watering. "It is not your fault. I only-"

"Of course. It is understandable." Arianne murmurs. "But I am handling him Sansa. Believe that, if nothing else. Do you think a Kingsguard could take down a Princess of Dorne hmm? Daughter of the ruling Prince and a niece of the Red Viper?"

She is so sure of herself, and Sansa has no energy left to spend voicing her worries and only pitches her shoulder upwards in an tense shrug.

The surge of motivation has disappeared now her warnings and fears have been passed over, and she just wants to go back to bed. She wants to curl up in the sheets with her dogs and think of happier times, where she could breathe without fear of death stalking her, breath hot on the back of her neck, mocking finger trailing down her spine. She wants to close her eyes and remember long ago memories of her family when it was whole and complete. She wants to be peaceful, with no worries or fears or death.  

Everyone tells her the Water Gardens will offer her a reprieve, and she can only hope so. 


	18. Chapter 18

The breeze tickles the tiny hairs on her brown arms as Sansa drags in a deep breath. It dances across Sansa's skin, rustling through the leaves of the trees nearby. When she squints through heavy-lidded eyes up at the sun it almost blinds her, so she closes her eyes and loses herself where she lies. The sand is warm beneath her hot skin, grains sticking to the flesh of thighs and legs, stuck between the gaps of her delicate toes. 

She can taste the salt in the air when her lips part, the cloying scent of blood oranges ripe on Sansa's tongue, and it's peaceful here in this silent stretch of beach. Nothing but the waves that lap the shore, roaring in her ears as she drags her toes idly through the sand. Nothing but Sansa's heart thudding dully in her chest, nothing but the ache of her skin as it begins to burn. It should bother her, that soon she'll be in pain, but it doesn't. Isn't she in pain already? Nothing bothers her anymore anyway, and her head lolls back with a twinge, the crick in her neck protesting. Gulls call to each other above, and she squeezes her shut eyes tighter at the sound of laughter nearby, of bare feet slapping down wet marble steps and across sand and she flinches when water droplets fleck her skin. 

She's so  _tired,_ mind always racing-racing-racing. A shriek nearby makes her eyes snap open and her heart pound and she should move further away from the noise that always hums in the back of her mind, the giggles and screams and splashes, but she doesn't have the energy. She exhales slowly, sluggishly gazing up at the sky above her. She could stare at the sky forever, for it is as blue as Sansa's eyes, as blue as Robb's and Mother's and Bran and Rickon's were. All dead now. She's all alone.

Even here she is left to her own devices, quite content to wallow in her own misery for hours. She has no maids to help her with her dresses, to pour her baths, to get her food. She must simply fend for herself like all the other children. She is only one in a crowd of hundreds, and it is easy to disappear. She must fight for her food, weaving amongst the running rabble of other children, but she does it most unwillingly, and more often then not the meagre meal of bread and ham she snares is passed to a younger child for Sansa isn't that hungry anyway and they deserve it more. If any of the children recognise her when she walks past, they don't say a word. They have their own friends to talk with and games to play, lessons to learn and fun to be had. 

She watches the bobbing figures run away in the opposite direction, their happy shouts fading and swallowed by the wind, and she is quite alone now. Sometimes, she looks at the glittering waters mere feet away and thinks of walking out into the spray, further out into the currants and letting them take her. Surely she wouldn't be as lonely then. She'd see everyone she loved again, and how she wishes she could see their smiles, feel their hugs, the beat of their heart against her ear. She can't though, for she knows Prince Doran is always watching from the balcony above, and if she did anything her husband would blame his brother and she couldn't bear another pair of siblings to be ruined by death just as hers were. Besides, Sansa's sure she doesn't have the guts. She worries too much, about _everything,_ even though her body is heavy and unresponsive to her chattering mind and how can it be? Her head is too stuffed to support her neck sometimes, and Mother's neck was slit wide open and Robb's head was replaced with his direwolf's and Sansa doesn't have the energy to cry now. Tears don't spring in her dry ducts, she merely gazes unseeing at the horizon. She can't grieve, she can't do anything. What did Joffrey call her? A Dornish whore, and the letter he read said the Dornish call her naught but a _burden_... 

The breeze across Sansa's arms makes her shiver, goosebumps rising and she bites down on her lower lip anxiously. All alone. The desolate beach sends a chill down her spine and she pulls her leaden limbs up to stagger slowly across the dunes, wooden limbs creaking with protest. Just a little further, into the safety of mindless chatter. 

She ambles up past the pools, feet slapping against the wet marble the exact shade of cherry blossom, past the shrieking children, past the balcony from where Prince Doran observes them all, down to the gardens. It's warmer here, and she curls up amongst the sweet fragrance of oranges and loses herself again in weary thoughts that never fade.

* * *

She's sprawled by the side of one of the pools, eyes closed with her head tilted up towards the sun. She can feel its rays sinking into her sun, and she's so tired she keeps drifting off before jerking herself away. She can't fall asleep here, for what if everyone hears her screams or sobs? Maybe it doesn't matter, she doesn't know anyone anyway. Funny, how there were so many people in the world that she didn't know who were fine, but the few that Sansa knows and _loves_... bad things happen to them. She doesn't want to talk to anyone anyway, she's perfectly fine by herself. She has a routine now, of sorts. 

She spends her nights trying not to think. Sometimes she watches the stars through the high arched windows, other nights she watches other people unable to sleep, their secret kisses under shadows and games and stories told by candlelight. She sleeps in the day, finds a hidden pocket in the beach or the grounds of the Water Gardens and dozes lightly, fitfully, always anxious that her screams and tears will alert someone nearby. Most of the time she just... sits in the sun and does nothing. She doesn't mind though, for she doesn't have the energy to  _do_ anything. Nobody wants to do anything with her anyway, so it works well for everyone. 

Sansa's mouth is dry with thirst, but she can't summon the energy nor willpower to walk across and pour herself some lemonwater or fruit juice. She gazes at the table laden with goblets, protected from the heat with a wicker roof. People lounge nearby with some, sipping slowly, but most down them in one before rushing off again leaving the servants to keep them constantly filled. Her stomach pinches sharply with hunger, but it's nowhere near dinner and she doesn't want to ask any staff for food. She would be bothersome, rude. 

She watches languidly as a drop of water splashed onto her drips steadily down her thigh, falling into the hollow of her kneecap. When something heavy and warm and wet collides into her Sansa can't breathe, scrabbling backwards desperately. Flecks of water on her face, limbs tangled with anothers and she gasps for breath, caught off-guard. She grunts, shoving the person off her, and she doesn't want to die not truly-

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" The apology is slow to travel to Sansa's ears as she looks at the girl blankly, who's already standing up. "I'm really clumsy."

Sansa shrugs defensively, shaky fingers playing with the sleeve of her dress.  

"It's fine." She croaks quietly and the girl runs a hand through her hair. Tousled and shoulder length, the colour of cinammon. She has a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose and a dimple in her right cheek when she grins.

"Do you want to come join us?" She angles her head towards a small group of friends lounging in the shallows, flicking water at each other as they talked.

Sansa shakes her head, tucking a limp strand of hair behind one ear and the girl stares at her for a moment before shrugging. Sansa watches her go, stride quickening into a run before she jumps into the pool. She shies back and turns around, walking in the opposite direction. Slipping between two trees to the garden beyond, the grass blades tickling her bare feet, sun rays half blinding her as she staggers to a standstill and drops to the floor. Skirts crumpled, hair a mess, breathing unsteady and she is better alone. She is a mess, she is a _curse,_ everyone is better without her. Only... it would be nice, to have friends. To forget. To try and laugh again. Sansa sighs, forehead creasing as she idly plucks a blade of grass between two fingers. 

Tomorrow, she'll make friends tomorrow. 

* * *

Father is dead. Mother is dead. Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon are dead. Sansa should be dead, how is she still alive? How did she alone survive Joffrey and the Lannister's?

She wonders what they'd be doing if they were still alive. Would they come to Dorne? Or would they stay away like they had since she left Kings Landing? She's a Martell now after all, and Sansa stares up at the ceiling with burning eyes. She doesn't want to go out today, to skirt the edge of the pools and be accosted by strangers. She just wants to sleep and never wake up but she's too _tired_ to sleep and when she closes her eyes her mind is too active to possibly relax. She knows she should shower, should change out of her rumpled dress into fresh garb, do her hair and go outside and smile but she _can't_. She does, of course, though she barely remembers later when she's half-asleep on the beach, arms around her knees with her eyes pinned to the sea.

In the absence of the nobles she must always look perfect and pristine for, Sansa's carefully cultivated image has disintrigated to nothing and she is a mess, and Gods does she hates herself for it! The lack of meaningful and important activity forced upon her allows the constant drip of bad thoughts to drown her, overwhelm her constantly and completely, and perhaps it was a bad idea for her to come here. Perhaps Oberyn, for the first time since she had met him, was  _wrong._ She'd rather be with him, for she could talk to him of loss and grief and he would let her embrace the darkness without surrendering completely to it... Alone, completely alone, she is a weakling, has buckled to the constant stress and fear that Joffrey had chipped away at and she loathes it, loathes  _him_ for making her this way. 

"I lost my family too, you know." 

Sansa flinches, a chill down her spine as she swings her tight neck around to the girl behind her. She's tall and willowly, half melted into the long shadows, her lips curled into a crooked and sad half-smile, and Sansa notices with a pang that she has grey eyes. Just like Father, just like Arya, just like Jon, though the girl's eyes are a shade or two lighter and glitter like her families never, and she said- she just said she lost family too. 

Sansa licks her dry lips anxiously. "I'm sorry."

She shrugs one elegant shoulder, her mass of sandy blonde curls trembling from her scalp all down to the ends that brush her waist as she sinks down onto the sand a few feet away from Sansa. 

"You needn't be. It was a long time ago." She looks out at the sea, mirroring Sansa's position moments before whilst Sansa stares at her. She has tiny freckles on her sharp milk cheeks, and a silver scar on her chin that shimmers a shade different to the pallor of her skin. 

"I just wanted you to know you're not alone." She turns back to Sansa, thick curls swishing, expression so heartbreakingly cool and collected Sansa wishes she could take some of her serenity and absorb it into her own skin for a while. 

"Thank you." Sansa whispers, and the girl's lips turn into a wide smile.

They sit for a long while together in silence, gazing out at the night sea. Black ink waters, silver sand and long grey shadows that can ensare; the world during the night was daunting but easy to hide within. Sansa sneaks glances at her calm companion before she stands, feathery eyelashes sweeping down upon Sansa. 

"Have a good night." 

"You too." Sansa says politely, stiffly, and that enigmatic smile appears again as Sansa delicately touches her auburn locks as the breeze stirs them. 

"I will." 

Then she's gone, melting into the dark as abruptly as she appeared and Sansa follows her footprints minutes later, picking her skirts up and wandering slowly up the cold brick steps. She was right, the girl, wasn't she? She didn't have her family, but she had another family now did she not? All the Martell's, and there are so many of them Sansa finds them overwhelming at times. Not... not related by blood, but by marriage which was one of the strongest bonds a person could take. And Oberyn... he'd sent her here in the hopes it would  _help,_ not make her  _worse._ Disappointment swirls in Sansa's stomach and she bites down on her lip in disgrace. She'll get better soon. She has to, or else what will become of House Stark? Nothing but memories quickly forgotten, and people need to remember what the Lannister's did to her family. Surely the North remembers. They loved Robb too, had crowned him King and given their lives in service. People still remember they have to; Sansa will always remember.

* * *

_My dearest Sansa,_

_I am at a loss for words - something Ellaria can vouch rarely happens. You simply astound me, and your good-will surprises me constantly - though why it does I have no idea for your kindess is infailing, always, even when you are suffering the worst a person can five-times fold. To organise such a thing and to have it capture so perfect her likeness means you searched a considerable time and it was not a hasty decision, and I know not the words to say to convey the depth of my gratitude towards you. I am in your debt always, and would have it no other way._ _I shall not disturb your time in the Water Gardens, and can only hope these words cheer you and reassure you in your grief, and know though I am not with you I and everyone think of you always and hope you will return to us when you are well and ready._

_Your loving husband,_

_Oberyn_

_X._

Sansa reads the letter through once disbelieving the kind words, then again, and after she hugs the parchment to her chest, hearing his voice shining so clearly through the words it is as if he is there right beside her. Tears automatically well in her eyes, for Oberyn loves her gift so well and he is thinking of her, they are all thinking fondly of her despite her being leagues away and alone. She swipes away her tears with a choked laugh, and she is so quick to cry these days! Quite different, to cry in delight over the words writ by the own hand of her husband, by the appreciation so clearly expressed, the- the  _love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's gift will be seen within the next few chapters. I know this chapter is slow, and likely parts of the next too, but I wanted a chance to explore Sansa's depression and grief. The books only make passing references and sentences to Sansa's feelings after the deaths of her family, and I think especially in Dorne where she's been allowed to be herself and is away from Joffrey's awful behaviour, she is able to lay down her armour so to speak and properly grieve the way she hasn't in the books. Sorry if you find it boring, and I apologise for the long update once more!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait in between updates. Writing the next chapter now.

When she'd first arrived at the Water Gardens she'd been bemused by the queer looking area in the space between the pools and the bedchambers. Fully furnished with pale pink tiles, and at the top of the room, gold wrought suns and spears allowed water to fall to the floor before running to the drains either side. She observed for a while the children running up and twisting the sigil of House Martell around to let lose the stream of water that washed them. Like a bath, though people were to clean themselves with soap, slather oils upon their wet skin, scrub their own hair. Sansa found it all quite bizarre and fascinating, and in due time when the place was deserted had crept in herself, discarded her robe on the hooks outside and tried the ritual herself. She heard the children of the Gardens call them showers, and she decides soon after she likes showers, though they come in second to baths. 

She finds showering soothing, and Sansa loses countless minutes as others come and go, running her hands through her hair and rinsing the sweat from her body, covering her body with sweet-smelling lotions. There's outdoor showers too, where one can lean back and enjoy the spray or scoop up water in shells and pour the water over their bodies themselves safely obscured from prying eyes by huge swathes of colourful plants ripe in bloom. 

She stands for a long time now with her eyes closed and head tilted back to allow the cold stream of water to cool her, travelling down the nape of her neck, sliding down her spine and hitting the floor with a patter. Arya would have loved this, Sansa knows, and a small smile spreads across her lips at the thought for her sister would never have bathed again, running in and out within a minute. Sansa likes lingering though, likes to imagine that the water washes her worries and woes away for a little while, and she stays there until her skin is bumpy and her fingers shrivelled.

* * *

She hears excited whispers travelling quickly around the gardens, for Prince Oberyn's arrival was always cause to celebrate. Sansa knows he never stays long, just as the kids know, but he always flashes a smile to whoever crosses his path for Sansa hears a gaggle of girls whispering about it as she hurries past them, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Sansa has firmly stayed _far_ away from Prince Doran's chambers since her arrival two weeks earlier, and now she avoids anywhere she may be accosted by her husband for she doesn't wish for him to see her like this. He sent her away for her to get better and heal, and she's done nothing except get worse. She can't bear to see the disappointment writ clear on his face, the gentle concern that makes guilt swarm in the pit of her stomach, so like a coward she hides, and then spurred on by her shame at being idle and tearful tries to seek the girl who had spoken to her the night before. The girl who had lost her family too, and surely they could bond through that if nothing else? All her other friends are dead - sweet Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel.

She searches for a while, determined not to think of her husband only a few buildings away. She wonders if he is asking Prince Doran about her; she wonders what his answer will be. She has almost given up on finding the girl, resolving to merely head onto the beach and hide behind the dunes of sand, when she sees the distinctive long locks floating on the water as she lolls in a quiet pool, the shallow water lapping her waist as her fingers drag elegantly through it. 

Sansa stands hovering for a good few seconds, faltering now she'd worked up the courage to go and interact with someone else. What if she didn't want to know her at all? Only wanted to laugh at her pain- _no,_ she said she had lost family too -  _what if it was a lie?_

She takes a deep breath and plunges into the water slowly, tensely, not taking her eyes off the girl to one side of her who hums ever so slightly under her breath, face tilted towards the sun. Sansa lets the refreshing cold water settle around her, her thin silks sticking to her skin beneath the surface. It is a nice day - not too hot everyone is unable to do anything, but a comfortable heat one can relax in. Inch by inch as the seconds tick by and the girl stays silent Sansa finds herself relaxing in the companionship. She is away from everyone else, but she is not alone. 

"Did you have a good night?" She finally enquires quietly, tongue licking her dry lips. 

The girl nods. 

"Can you swim?"

Her voice is languid, so relaxed one could think she was almost bored if they did not see her; the glint in her silver eyes as she turns to look sideways at Sansa, the faint smile tracing her pink lips. She is so calm, her voice so practical and matter-of-fact Sansa cannot possibly be alarmed or unnerved by her. 

Sansa bobs her head up and down in a brief nod. "My Mother taught me when I was little." 

"Good." The girl grins widely, pearl teeth shining in the sunlight before she kicks off from the side with one fluid motion and darts across the pool with as much ease as a fish. "I thought I'd have to train you!" She yells from the middle of the pool. "Are you coming, or not?"

Too startled, too worried to not dare refuse she obdiently swims further out into the pool. If she closed her eyes as her limbs struck out at the water, she could imagine exactly the days of her childhood when her Mother held her by the stomach as she practised the motions of swimming. The pools at Winterfell were always hot, and the water that splashes against Sansa's face is so cold it makes her flinch back, coughing, when another girl jumps into the fray. 

"Sorry." She says cheerily, sounding everything but as splashes thunder around them and more children launch themselves into the air to fall into the pools with squeals.

Sansa looks at the onslaught of people, overwhelmed by the sudden chatter, the energetic bodies nipping and shoving and splashing. She treads water with her toes, half of mind to retire gracefully and sit on the tile edge merely watching. She opens her mouth to say so, when a girl grabs her arm, fingers splayed across her forearm, dark eyes bright. 

"You have to play with us now, we'll be uneven otherwise." 

Sansa looks around at the grinning faces suddenly surrounding her, and how can she say no? With a timid smile she relinqushes herself to the lively people around her, and soon finds herself shoved in the middle of a bizzare game where she sits around a boy's shoulders, fingers gripping the wet strands of his hair. 

"Don't drop me!" She shrieks as he wobbles, and he's laughing at her fear, saying something about how she'd never be able to carry him and she hardly weighs a thing. A weak laugh splutters in between her breathless gasps as he lurches forward to almost knock heads with a second pair. His hands, wet and warm on her ankles,   

"I'll go easy on you." The girl - _her friend?  -_ promises, long blonde hair matted to her skull. She smiles. "I'll let you win, if you want."

"I don't want to win when I haven't done anything." Sansa raises her voice slightly over the din, legs clenching tight around the throat of her steed, who chokes. She hastily apologises, loosening her grip as she looks back to her opponant. "It wouldn't be fair." 

"I've won dozens of time." She flicks a hand lazily to indicate the outcome of the game hardly matters to her, and the girl carrying her dances nimbly around Sansa's partner, grinning mischeavously. 

"Hurry up Lissa, you're breaking my back." 

Her name is Lissa then, and Sansa is still absorbing that when she swipes her arms over the gap between them to knock her shoulder. Her jaw drops as the force of the thrust sends her wobbling sideways and her ride moves to the left. 

"Try to grab her hair." He advises. 

"I can't!" Sansa protests as he spins wildly around. Her heart is thundering in her chest, legs tight around this stranger's throat, fingers digging into his scalp and she shrieks as their competitors surge forward, knocking into Sansa roughly. Sansa scrabbles desperately, gasping for breath, imagining the hackles in her back rising in defence and she doesn't want to be  _attacked-_

She almost misses the wink Lissa tosses her before she throws herself backwards into the pool with a huge splash that causes water to lurch up over the side onto the tiles where several onlookers squeal.

"You're good." Lissa says breathlessly, pushing her hair back from her dripping face. "We should make you Queen of the pool for the day." 

"Oh no," Sansa protests. "I can't be."

But she's smiling all the same as the boy she was unceremoniously pushed on lowers her down gently into the water again. 

* * *

In due course she learns all of their names: Vidre, who is Palissa's partner in battle and milk-sister since birth though they look complete opposites, the way Lissa is fair and she is dark. Despite their difference in looks they share the same laconic personality, so unruffled as they lounge in the shade, commanding the attention of any that wander past. There is long-legged Ellyn who Sansa had previously encountered, with freckles scattered across her cheeks and a contagious enthusiasm for anything to do with sports be it riding or swimming, and Jeyla who is hyper and loud and can always be heard laughing over something. Cossandra is the fifth friend, quiet by nature and soft-spoken but intelligent and fun loving all the same. Days pass, and Sansa finds the group herself when they lounge in the pools, when they sit in lessons as Maesters talk of legends and numbers, when they curl up together at night in a corner of the drafty halls bundled in hammocks. Not once do they invade her own space searching when she is not wanted to be found and for that Sansa is eternally grateful.

She is sure they would offer comfort, but the tears fall less often now and a smile no longer feels foreign on her lips. Still she feels the weight of her families deaths in the pit of her stomach, would she not always? But she could forget them for a while and focus on the present, racing through the gardens with her new found friends who seem to live only for the next exciting game - whether it be in the pools or out, and care not for politics or social status or indeed anything outside of the land away from their home. They live only for the golden glazed days, where they dance in the sun with golden skin and bright eyes and feast on fine fish dinners at night, supping sweet wine that leaves one's head fuzzy. They don't think of what awaits them outside of the Water Gardens, in a few years time when they are grown older.

"Why would we?" Palissa drawls. "Those days are years away. Better to concentrate on what is happening right this moment." And she flicks a bruised orange at Ghael. There is a scattering of laughter amongst the group, and Sansa smiles as she sucks on the tart piece of blood orange she accepts from Javas.  

Days pass much quicker when she has so much to do; she attends lessons when her friends do at their urging, for who else was to make them understand sigils so and speak of legends so eloquently? Then there are games of a dozen sorts in the pools, racing around the tiles and down the steps onto the beach, leaping out into the ocean giddily. Nights have never been more enthralling, clustered in dozing heaps talking of stories and the latest news around the gardens, even sometimes of Sansa's husband. They tease her and say she is being coy, that she needn't be for most of them are no longer maidens either, but she merely smiles and laughs for of course they are not the amount of kissing games they play! She falls asleep with her head pressed into the small of Palissa's back, Ellyn's legs kicking lightly at hers, active even in sleep, and she wakes up in the morning and does it all over again. 


	20. Chapter 20

"How do you stop them?"

"Stop what?" Palissa turns to look at her.

The pair are sprawled deep within the sand dunes in the dead of night, the moon silver in the sky and long shadows coating each other's bodies as they curl together.

"The thoughts." Sansa whispers into her shoulder, voice half-muffled. "The bad thoughts. When I get scared thinking of things that might happen - that most likely won't happen - they... they suffocate me. I can't breathe Palissa," Her hand clutches her friend's; blue eyes meeting grey. "It feels like I'm dying, like I've lost control and then-" A rueful chuckle, brow furrowed. "I'm so scared I've lost control of myself I become even worse... How do you stop it all? How did _you_ stop it?" 

"I never said I had the affliction." Palissa points out gently, fingers idly stroking Sansa's hair. Combing through the locks comfortingly, even as her eyes rake the horizon. "But I did. Of a sort, anyhow. I wasn't scared of dying, or- or losing control, more that I didn't know what I was going to do, or where I was going to go and all the stress... well, it did no good." She sighs deeply, and Sansa rolls further onto her side, hipbone clashing against's Lissa's.

"You can tell me about your family. If you ever wish to... I shall be here." 

She smiles lazily. "Maybe when you tell me about yours." She pats her cheek, the silver ring on her thumb cold on Sansa's skin. "In truth I hardly recall them, but I know how to stop the bad thoughts." 

"And how do you do that?" Sansa asks, desperation lacing her voice as she leans in closer, fingers tightening around Palissa's hand. 

"Well," Palissa considers. "I just... breathe."

Sansa stares at her, for surely there must be more to it then that? She starts to shake her head disbelievingly, but Palissa places a slim finger on Sansa's lips and captures her with her sharp gaze.

"I close my lips, take a breath so big my chest hurts and count to five. Then I open my mouth and let it all go. The air, the worries, the thoughts. And I do it again, and again, and after a while I can think more clearly. The fog disappears, the... the poison."

Sansa absorbs the words slowly. It can't possibly be that simple; Palissa is stupid to think that was all it was to it. To merely breathe, to merely commit the natural process would stop the thoughts? It is not true; Sansa refuses to believe her. Palissa likes to mock her, to tease, and she presses her lips together in dismay. 

"I promise," Palissa vows, long eyelashes sweeping her cheeks as she looks at her. "It sounds too simple to be true, I know. And there are other things that can help too, but counting numbers and breathing slowly makes the rest come easier." 

"What else?" Sansa presses. "What else must I do? Tell me please, I must know." 

"It won't last forever." She whispers. "You think it will, I know. I thought that too, before I came to the Water Gardens, before the years passed. It may take a while, but it won't be forever. Memories and feelings will fade, they won't hurt as much... you'll be able to look back and see the good things, not the bad. And it helps on the bad days - because believe it or not _I_ have bad days-" Palissa hums with knowing, lips tilting and eyebrows raising as if she too could not believe it when Sansa narrows her eyes at her. "It helps to keep busy. It's fine to have the bad thoughts for a while, because they're always there lurking. It's nice even, to give in and listen to them for a while. Mayhaps it motivates you in some ways..." She trails off, deep in thought. A crease appears on the bridge of her nose Sansa wants to straighten out, for her friend has felt the pain Sansa has gone through and Sansa wonders how she did it without a husband like Oberyn, and family like Ellaria and the Martell's; how did she manage without a friend like herself? 

"But," Palissa finally takes a deep breath, and when she turns to meet Sansa's gaze again her eyes have regained their lively glimmer. "After a few minutes of the bad thoughts, I force myself to think of something good instead, and if I cannot do that I go and  _make_ something good. Even doing something simple serves as a good distraction, like... like showering. If I'm stressed, if the feelings come to me again, no matter what time of day or night I go to the showers and concentrate on the water hitting the tiles. I count the drops, one and two, and three-" Her fingers lightly tapping against Sansa's arm, and Sansa flinches. "And I feel the water on my shoulders, rolling down my back, and I think of water and the sea, and the boats on the sea, and the people that inhabit those boats and what wonderful lives they must lead... and somehow, a while later I'll be thinking of a story heard in class, or of the results of a game days before or a jape Vidre told me earlier, and I realise I've completely forget about the grief and I've been able to breathe fine all day."  

"I'm glad." Sansa says fiercely, for Palissa deserves to be happy and carefree. Every child does, and the knowledge that some don't makes Sansa's heart ache. She mourns almost as much for Palissa's hurts, for Oberyn's grief, as much as she does her own. It isn't  _fair,_ that the world hurts good people while the bad ones survive; though perhaps it is a gift that the good people are alive to spread their faith, their hope.

"I don't want to give you false hope Sansa, but I'm not a liar. I always tell the truth, for it always comes out in the end anyhow." Chin jutted up with determination, a fire in her eyes as she stares at Sansa. "You'll always have bad days and bad thoughts, but you'll have the most fantastic, beautiful good days filled with light and love and laughter too." 

"Perhaps," Sansa whispers, after a long while when there is nothing around them but the sound of the waves lapping the shore, the insects that buzz nearby, the soft rasp of Palissa's breath. "It is the bad things that make the good so cherished, so- so  _good._ "

"Now you're getting it." Palissa says slowly, and her grin makes Sansa's stomach flip.

* * *

_Breathe in._

She's safe in the Water Gardens. She is happy more days then not now. Her family would be proud of the progress she has made. 

_Breathe out._

Mother and Father and all her siblings are dead, but she is not. She's allowed to have fun, she's allowed to laugh and act like a child if she desires. She is not to blame for her families tragedy. 

_Breathe in._

Her lips part slowly, softly, and she opens her teary eyes and stares down at the parchment before her, ink still wet. Her quill hovers above the blank space and she wonders what else she could possibly tell him. She misses him so much, when faced daily with Palissa's eyes which are so alike to his. She never told him at the time, but she is happy he was brought up alongside them. They were never as close as him and Arya, or Sansa and her true brothers, but they were still siblings, still shared the same Stark blood. He is the only sibling she has left now, and she finishes the letter and signs her name with a heavy sigh. She hopes he'll reply, it would be so sweet to hear from him after so long...  

"I thought I'd find you here." 

Sansa looks up, locks tumbling over her shoulder as she turns to the doorway where Cossandra stands. Her friend smiles softly, book pressed to her hip that she glides over to return to the shelf. 

"I was just writing a letter to my brother Jon." 

"I'm sure he'll reply as soon as he's able." Cossandra comforts her, brushing her dark locks away from her eyes. "Are you coming to play? Ellyn is quite insistant that we have a re-match from yesterday."

"She dislikes losing." Sansa smiles, placing her quill down and sealing hot wax over her letter. She drifts to the other side of the library where the Maester sits sorting books and requests him to send it when he next has a spare moment. Cossandra watches her progress, and twines her arm around Sansa's gently when she returns to her side.

"You know, they never used to have books on the North in the library." She comments mildly as they exit the library and head down the dusty hallway, the hot sun half-blinding them. Sansa squints to avoid it's glare, turning instead to gaze at Cossandra at her words.

"Have you read any?"

Sansa cannot pretend to be uneager to discuss anything relating to her home. It has been so long since she had talked of it to anyone but Oberyn. Her friends have invited her into their home, surely Sansa can do the same, as much as she is able? 

"I have." Cossandra confirms. "And I have deduced it it far too cold for my liking. Snow in summer!" She shivers and Sansa laughs.

" _Light_ snow. Barely any really, and Winterfell had hot springs. I assure you I know no people who have frozen to death in summer."

"Yes, in  _summer._ "

They laugh, skirts swishing the floor as they walk down the steps towards the pools already full despite the early hour of the day. They skirt around naked toddlers shrieking as they run down the hallway, and Sansa welcomes the blast of heat on her face as she steps outside. Just the thought of Winterfell, of home, and the blizzards that used to howl... She almost shivers, but she hurries forward instead to where her friends wait.

"What took you so long?" Ellyn shouts as they approach, already dripping wet in the middle of the water, thumping Jeyla on the forearm. Sansa is too well-bred to roll her eyes, but Cossandra is discreetly doing it for her. 

"We're here now." 

Ellyn mounts Jeyla with a determined look on her face and Sansa knows this will be a long duel. She settles down on the edge of the pool, kicking her legs idly back and forth shouting out encouragement from time to time - for both sides of course. 

* * *

"Sansa it's your turn!" 

There is twelve of them, clustered in a group. Cross-legged in the moonlight, a candle wavering in the middle of them beside the empty wine bottle pointing at her. They have to speak in whispers for most of the people crowded in the room are asleep, but Sansa is sure eyes glitter in nearby hammocks, watching discreetly for any source of gossip on the morrow. She is sudddenly stuffy and uncomfortably humid in the large room, despite the ample arches set into the marble walls for the sea breeze to make its way inside from the courtyard. 

Sansa flushes, though it's not hard for the wine they'd shared earlier has made her veins run hot. "I don't want to kiss anyone."

"It doesn't have to be on the lips." Cossandra pats her arm reassuringly, hair brushing Sansa's shoulders; her mouth burns at the mere thought. 

"No it can be  _anywhere._ " Vidre smiles sweetly, and Sansa knows the implication behind her words as does everyone else. Ellyn pretends to gag and Sansa giggles, hiding her laughter by her hand as she turns her head away. 

"I'm a married woman."

"You're missing out." Vidre warns before spinning the bottle again. Sansa watches the moonlight flicker on the glass as it twirls to a stop in front of Javas. She leans across to meet his lips with hers, and Lissa makes a wry remark about avoiding the candle lest her passions set her aflame and they snicker. 

Vidre settles down, running a hand through her mussed locks before Javas spins it once more. On and on it goes, with Sansa politely declining everytime it lands on her. It amuses her though, how they all look momentarily disheartened. Ghael promises he'll pick all the blood oranges from the highest branches she can't reach and Alesander says he'll help her win every game they play in the pools even against Ellyn (who strongly denies it), but their pleads don't move Sansa one jot. She won't betray her husband, and even if she did it would not be with people she had known for only a few weeks. 

"Can we not play something else?" Cossandra asks after a particulary spirited round with Jeyla and Alesander where the latter had decided to play a kiss of all places on the other's  _thigh._ Sansa had to look away, but the snickers and collective gasps were enough to satisfy her imagination, even when Ghael encourages them to go higher.

Sansa shakes her head slowly, she doubts she'll ever understand how free Dornish can be with their love. It is so strange, so different to everywhere else, but strangely attractive too. Beautiful, charming, that they can choose who to kiss and bed without being pressured. Nowhere do people hate her for  _not_ partaking in their ludicrous and slightly crude games despite the fun involved, and they don't dismiss her either. Indeed, the girls had made her feel all the more comfortable, Ellyn raining kisses on her knuckles as she softly lifted her hand, Vidre affectionately kissing her temple, Cossandra and Jeyla on each cheek, Palissa her nose to collective laughter. It is a nice change from the atmosphere of Kings Landing, where she was so unsure of every man's leering gaze upon her, of every ladies' whispered comments and sickly-sweet looks. Moonlight paints her skin silver, her friends dappled grey in the night. All of them shining like irreplacable jewels, and she smiles around the lip of her cup at their laughter, their gaiety and infectious happiness.  

"What are you smiling at?" Jeyla asks curiously, eyes crinkling and Sansa's smile only widens when she pokes her hip. 

"All of you." Sansa admits. "When I first came here I had no friends. I haven't had any friends for a long, long time." Her voice wavers ever so slightly, and it is only when she looks up from placing her goblet down she notices all other conversation has ceased and they all look towards her with solemn faces. It is wrong to see them so sad and concerned, these people who can never take anything seriously.

"So I'm smiling because I have friends. And you're nice to me, so _nice_." Maybe she's drunk too much wine, maybe they all have, for Cossandra is sniffing delicately and Javas pats her arm. She takes a deep breath. "So thank you, for that."

"You don't need to thank us." Palissa smiles. "We're just treating you like we would anyone else."   

Sansa looks around at all the individual faces, and her heart feels fit to burst it has not seen fit to possibly love so many in so long. She nods, swallowing thickly to avoid crying with gratitude. 

"Well, thank you anyway."  

* * *

He comes to the Gardens every two weeks.

She knows, for he has private meetings with his brother Prince Doran in the royal solar. She had planned to wear her best dress and do her hair, to smile and curtsey and inquire how he was, but her plans had been disrupted when she'd been awoken to Jeyla's shrieks that they had to come into the pools  _now._

Sansa bobs up to bat the small leatherclad ball, watching it tumble through the air before Ghael pushes it back narrowly avoiding Cossandra, who flinches away. Water drapes Sansa like a second skin, lapping around her stomach as she treads the pool.

"Get it in the netting!" Ellyn cries, hair plastered to her skull as she surges forward and punches the ball up to the opposite end of the pool. 

"I can't reach!" Sansa paddles desperately, and she shrieks with giddy surprise when Alesander boosts her up to snatch the ball from mid-air. 

She's laughing, sat atop Alesander with strands of hair dripping in front of her eyes when she notices him. He's stood on the balcony above, straight as an arrow beside Prince Doran in his chair, and Doran's guard Areo Hotah. Their eyes meet for a fleeting second as he's scanning the water and he flinches in surprise. Sansa freeze for a moment before her lips flutter up into a shy smile as he nods in recognition, and she knows she isn't imagining the sparkle in his eyes-

She hits the water with a stinging splash, sounds muted and eyes burning, legs kicking and hair swirling around her. She breaks the surface with a spluttered gasp, laughter all around her. She chokes on water, flicking some at Alesander as she paddles to the edge of the pool, hair hanging heavy down on her back. She pulls herself out, bare feet slapping on the tiles as she goes to meet Oberyn, who waits in the shade of an orange tree. 

"Husband." Sansa holds her soaked skirts aloft to drop into a curtsey, trying hard to extingush the laughter in the pit of her belly that threatened to bubble up at any moment.

Her lips twitch with humour, and behind her Sansa hears her friends giggle. She doubts Prince Oberyn expected her to see her like this, stood before him dripping wet with newly-discovered freckles dusting her shoulders and cheeks, skin light gold and hair several shades lighter. Her hair flutters in the breeze, curls tangled together thick with sea salt, and she straightens with a smile. He looks  _well._ His hair has grown several inches; it falls down his back and skims his shoulder blades, silver strands twinkling in the bright sunlight. 

" _Prince Oberyn._ "

A chorus of breathy sighs sound behind Sansa and she turns to stare at her friends who had followed; Vidre and Palissa, skinny arms twined around each other as they look upon her husband with mutual smiles of delight, locks of hair twirling around their fingers. Jeyla is bouncing on her tiptoes, glossy curls trembling as she stares while Cossandra is bright red, eyes firmly on the floor. 

"Ladies." Her husband nods at them, smile playing on the edges of his lips before his gaze turns to Sansa again. "Might I take my wife for a stroll?"  

"Of course." Sansa can't resist giggling as she daintly sticks her arm out allowing Oberyn to approach her. "Though I'll make you wet."Her skin still glitters with water as he places her fingers on his arm. 

"The sun will dry me within the hour." He shrugs, not removing his gaze from her. "I didn't know you could swim." 

"I'm half Tully." She's still breathless from play, cheeks flushed as Oberyn's smile widens, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

"That you are." 

They walk away from the chaos of the pools, down a quiet path to the long orchards with vines of grapes and trees of oranges, apples and lemons. The fruit is ripe; the smells tangle on Sansa's tongue, and as if reading her mind Oberyn pauses at a particulary flourishing plant to twist an orange off its stem. He splits it with her, long deft fingers peeling the skin off delicately. His hands are always so quick, yet so gentle too, and she watches them work entranced, vision splintered from the rays of sunshine that pours over them. 

 Her husband is right about the weather, as he is right about everything, for already the wet fabric of his clothes are drying, crinkling against his chest and skimming his arms as he pushes the sleeves of his shirt up. Wiry black hair is thick on his arms, and Sansa realises she has never seen him bear so much skin before - even on their wedding night he had stubbornly kept all his clothes on, even the most impressive and jewel-laden layers. Dry mouthed, her fingers knock clumsily against his to take the segment of fruit he offers, and his smile is blinding as he talks easily of the most mundane things, the goings on within Sunspear and her beloved Sandship. She hums with satisfaction at the vibrant taste of blood orange that clings to the inside of her mouth as she sucks, giggling at the story Oberyn regales her with. It is so simple, so high-spirited, and it seems as if even the sun is smiling down on them for she swears she has never felt hotter underneath Oberyn's gaze. 

They walk slowly through the trees, grass brushing their ankles as they bask in the slim shadows of shade, taking the opportunity to become re-aquainted with each other. 

"-and so they kissed me other places instead." Sansa says, staring up at him as she laughs. His face is flecked with the shadow of leaves, the skin exposed to the sun gleaming and his teeth shine as he shakes his head at her antics. 

"On my head, and my cheek and nose." She giggles at the memory, hazy though it was she still recalled the soft presses of lips against her body, the waft of perfume as they leant in close, the heat over her skin. 

"You sound like you've been having a marvellous time." 

"Oh I have." She sighs, mind wandering back to the game. She wonders if her team has won, for the prize was the other team's dessert that night. Honey glazed fruit and fresh cream, and her mouth waters at the thought. 

"I am glad." He sounds so sincere, and Sansa looks up at him gratefully.

"Thank you for bringing me here." 

"It was my pleasure. Anything to make you feel better."

"I got your letter." She says, sudddenly shy and Oberyn's eyes soften, lips parting.

"I-" He shakes his head, and the thought that Sansa had made him breathless turns her stomach. Prince Oberyn Martell, her lovely and lethal husband is shaking before her! Shaking his head back and forth in disbelief, and Sansa nods encouragingly, leaning in close.

"You liked it?" 

"I- Sansa I  _loved_ it. And I am sure when you see it in person yourself you shall love it even more. The man you hired did a most wonderful job. The likeness..." 

Sansa shrugs gracefully, cheeks warming at his praise. "I could not let House Martell pay for a bad job."

He laughs, and before Sansa knows it she is flush against his chest as he hugs her. She catches her breath for a moment before relaxing into his soft hold, his arms around her waist. She has known these arms has she not? In the time of grief he had wrapped himself around her and eased her soul as much as he was able to, and she sighs softly, heartbeat slowing. His breath tickles the hairs around her ear, hot on her neck, and the ruffles of his loose sleeves brush her hips and she shivers. 

He withdraws slowly, and Sansa's lips tingle as he smiles. They resume walking after a moment, side by side but no longer touching. She trails her fingers over the soft leaves of the trees, as she inquires over her dogs. Oh she does miss them, and she can imagine them swimming amongst the pools, leaping in and out of the fountains and chasing people down the beach.

"Running wild." Oberyn grins. "I fear no one but you can tame them. They don't listen to any of our commands."  

"I don't suppose they could come here then." Sansa tries to stop the dissapointment before it darkens her good mood. She has been bad anyway, barely giving much thought to them beyond passing flickers in amongst her play. No wonder they are running wild, they must feel she has abandoned them... 

"Perhaps you could visit them?" Oberyn says hesitantly. "If you wanted to." 

"I think I would love that." Her lips curl upwards into a smile that he returns, and they continue walking on, the sky above them bright blue with not a cloud in sight.

* * *

"So what did you talk about?" Vidre asks nosily, leaning in closer to Sansa as she sits down.

"I've barely sat down!"  

"I know, but we're all impatient here." Palissa's smile broadens. "Except perhaps your husband." 

Were she doomed for the rest of her life to only attract people who wanted more off her then what she could give them? She can never escape whispers it seems, from King's Landing all the way to the dusty land of Dorne and she is so sick of it all. What can she give them, aside from  _stupid_ talk of matters which they only pretended to agree with or like? She can ignore most of the slander, for it is simply not true, her Father died a just man swearing fealty to King Joffrey, he was no traitor - even though Sansa visciously wishes he  _hadn't_ recanted his earlier words and let Joffrey be disposed. Would he still be alive now? Would Sansa be by his side? She hungers for another tale then the one she has endured. 

_Breathe in._

Sansa swallows back her disappointment, lifting one shoulder up in an attempt at indifference.

_Breathe out._

"My husband is well loved."

"As are you."

Sansa looks up at Vidre.

"You are kind to say so," Sansa says, brushing a speck of sand off her dress. "Though I doubt it to be true. I brought no dowry to the marriage alliance, and no land or prospects either."

For Robb was still alive when she sailed to Dorne all those moons ago. And- is that why Oberyn wedded her? To claim Winterfell and the North for his own, in the off-chance something happened to her brother? Perhaps he had planned it. No. Sansa knows with certainty he could not, would not, not after his sister Elia... but if he suspected it to happen, surely he would not dissade it from happening. After all, with their marriage he would be the... the King of the North, if Sansa ever pressed her claim. He could never rule Dorne, but surely he would not complain about the vast North he could inherit. He said he married her to save her from King Joffrey, nothing more nor less, and she has to believe him for that for she brought no money or priceless jewels to him when she arrived. But he is patient, did Lissa not yet just say so? 

"Sansa."

She blinks, and Palissa's eyes bore into hers with a knowing look.

"Just bad thoughts." She smiles weakly, taking another breath and picking up a handful of sand, scattering the grains and watching them flow through her fingers. 

_Breathe in._

Oberyn means no harm to her; has he ever? 

_Breathe out._


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter! Coursework sucks, here's the next chapter apologies for the delay again! Sorry this is mostly dialogue, but it sets up the next part of the story :)

The sky above them is bleeding shades of crimson and violet, and Sansa stands patiently as Daemon saddles Oberyn's horse, red locks blowing in the salt laden breeze. Oberyn adjusts the rose behind her ear, hand dropping down to take hers. He smells of the honey candles that flickered near them during their dinner, and she wonders if his scent will cling to her skin like the candle to him. She hopes so, for it will be a small piece of him with her in the dark of night when he himself is away. She has gotten so used to his visits now that in between she finds herself longing the days to slip by faster, and though she ventures more and more to Prince Doran's rooms to converse he is not the same company as her husband. She wonders what he would say if she were to broach the topic of returning back to Sunspear. She loves the Water Gardens dearly, but she misses Ellaria and Arianne and the Sand Snakes - though if she left she'd be leaving Palissa and Jeyla and all her friends behind... Perhaps she could bring them with her to the Sandship? Arianne has her friends, surely they would not deny her that?

"You look beautiful in the sunset." Oberyn notes idly, thumb rubbing across her knuckles and Sansa's smile is shy with pleasure at the compliment. 

"My husband is nice to say so." 

"My wife is as complimentary as ever." 

Sansa giggles softly, the sound rolling away across the courtyard in the dusk. 

"There is something else I must tell you before I leave. I have been putting it off for as long as I dared, but time is running out." He grimaces, and Sansa shrugs it off with an airy shrug, for it hardly seems there can be anything worse then what she has experienced. All her family are dead - except Jon.

"Is it Jon?" She gasps, colour draining from her cheeks. 

"Jon? No, no. He is fine, to my knowledge." Oberyn reassures her, smoothing her hair back from her face, and relief crashes down on Sansa, heady and sweet. She gazes up at him, lips parted waiting for news that could not be so terrible then, unless it was Arianne or another-

"We... that is, Prince Doran but he has deferred to me and now I must inform you... I have been requested to join the King's council, and attend the Wedding to Lady Margaery. King Joffrey has also requested you to go too."

Her curls swirls around her shoulders and goosebumps rise on her exposed skin. The scent of oranges and sea salt are thick on the breeze, her lips dry and cracked. She licks them anxiously. No more oranges and sea; only golden lions and _pain._   

"Go... go back?" She says, and funny how she can hear the ocean crashing in her ears so loudly, her voice so small and frail as she blinks at him unbelieving. "To King's Landing?"

To Joffrey? To memories of Father's death, to memories of brutal beatings that make her tense up even now at the mere thought? She shivers, and Oberyn draws her in closer to him, heat from him leeching into her. Her hands fist into his chest, and she listens to the heavy thud of his heart, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against her cheek as he sighs. 

"I just wanted you to know so you would not fear if I failed to meet you one day at the Water Gardens. Rest assured there will always be someone to help you- Arianne or my girls, or my dear old brother. You will not be alone, you understand?" She looks up at his worried tone, and his eyes search hers. "I am not abandoning you, I do not hate you. I will come back, you hear me?"

He waits until her reluctant nod before he continues. "I hate to leave you behind but I am only a raven away, you may send me any concerns and if there is any hint you are disturbed by anything - anything at all - I shall be back as soon as possible." 

"You can't leave me here." Sansa says thickly, for she knows that if not anything else in the tangle of her thoughts. "Not - not here in the Water Gardens, or the Sandship or even the Old Palace. I have to go back. What would Joffrey do to you, if you arrived and I wasn't there?" 

"I can handle a boy king." Oberyn says confidently. 

Sansa gazes at him. He has all the bluster of a Prince who answers to no-one, so self-assured that he will put the  _King_ in his place! Sansa wants to laugh hysterically, for doesn't he know that a King answers to no man, not even a Prince of Dorne? 

"You can't hurt him, he's the King." 

"I have ways." 

 _"No._ " She tugs at his hands. "You can't." 

"Sansa you are too sweet to worry for me." Oberyn kisses her knuckles, hideously blind to the terrible consquences his actions could bring to not just him but the entirety of Westeros. 

He turns away, ready to swing into the saddle and just  _leave_ her, like it was of no huge consequence and how can she make him see clearly?  _Breathe in. Breathe out._

"I wish to speak to Ellaria." She demands, hand reaching up to hang onto the reins of his mount. "I shall come to the Old Palace with you." Sansa pulls her expression together grimly and turns to Daemon.

"Saddle me a horse." 

* * *

Ellaria already knew.

Her lover had whispered it to her the night before, and now she sits listening attentively as Sansa spills out the conversation she'd just shared with her husband. Ellaria's hands rub comfortingly in a circle on the small of her back as Sansa shivers beside her, hands twisting together anxiously. Some homecoming. Sansa had envisioned herself riding calmly and gracefully back to the Old Palace, dismounting with the sun in her hair and happiness within her wide smile yet here she finds herself in a familiar place yet again. It's like she's never left at all. 

"If I don't go back-" Sansa's voice climbs higher up an octave but she pushes her fear down. _Breathe._ "If I don't go back, what if Joffrey sends someone to force me? Ser Arys is a Kingsguard member, he could easily kidnap me or... and then if I faced his wrath... I  _have to go._ "

"Yes, I think you do sweetling." Ellaria murmurs, arms encircling her waist to hug her. She smells of freesias and oranges, her soft curls tickling Sansa's cheek and a lump rises in her throat. Sansa leans into her, not wanting her to let go and leave her alone. "No matter what Oberyn says-" A pause where she looks at her partner, eyes narrowed. "He knows as well as we do that you have to go, despite wishes otherwise."  

Oberyn braces his hands on his thighs, leaning forward to meet her gaze with passion in his eyes. A foolish passion, a reckless plight and is he not a romantic, this husband of hers? Yet instead of kisses, he says only that he swears never to leave her side and if it not him beside her-

"It shall be I." Ellaria clasps her hand delicately within hers, eyebrows lowering in determination. She has never looked fiercer, the soft curves of her body emiting only boldness and pure nerve, and Sansa knows why Oberyn loves her, why he had kept her alone after a string of others. Her rings are cool on Sansa's hands as she squeezes, and Sansa feels a tentative wave of reassurance rise in her gut. 

"I shall be with you night and day, you understand?" Oberyn continues, voice rising with intensity. "He cannot harm you in my presence, and if he finds a way to when I am for some reason not with you... he shall sorely-" 

"It may be closure for the both of you." Ellaria says, talking over Oberyn with enough brazen confidence to make Sansa's eyes widen. "You can put to rest all the terrible things that happened there, and when the Wedding is over Oberyn can resign as a council member and you shall never have to go again. As long as  _you-_ " She turns to look at her partner. "Do not attempt to ruin us." 

"I would never-"

"Ellaria he said he would hurt the King!" Sansa says desperately, before she too, turns to look at Oberyn stricken. "Forgive me."

"I will always forgive you, I-"

"I suspected he would say as much." Ellaria nods to Sansa sagely, rolling her eyes. "He is a fool. He is our fool Sansa. What do you suggest we do to stop him?" 

"I- well I told him he cannot. For-" She swallows. "For I could not bear it if something happened to him, or you because of me _."_

If Oberyn's death - and perhaps even Ellaria's too- were to be on her hand after all the other recent tragedies she doesn't know what she would do. It hardly bears thinking about and she shudders wildly, teeth catching her bottom lip.

"You are quite right too." Ellaria nods. "He should have thought of that himself." She looks at her paramour with disappointment, shaking her head before turning back to Sansa lips upturned. "But you should be assured I don't intend to die anytime soon, much less due to a foolish action by our Prince here."  

Sansa tries to smile. "How long until we leave?"

"Three days, though we'll be stopping en-route to pick up the lords and ladies that are accompanying us." Her husband says reluctantly. He looks so _tired,_ Sansa thinks. Everyone is tired of Lannister games. She thought she wished never to set foot in Kings Landing again, but her poor husband having to occupy the place his sister was last...

"Sansa, are you sure-"

"Yes."

What other choice does she have? She is to step back into the lions den then, back into Joffrey's cruel gaze and twisted mind... gods help her. She reaches for his hand, not knowing if it was for her own comfort or his, and he squeezes tight. Gods help the both of them.  


	22. Chapter 22

"You can't come with me." Sansa says as she announces her depature to her friends.  

She gazes around at the people clustered around her, people she had come to find solace and fun and friendship with. People too close to take into the lair of a lion with a fondness for toying with its prey. She couldn't leave them without a word of goodbye, without explaining why she was leaving for weeks. She'd returned to the Water Gardens that same night, for it were only a few hours on horseback and she needed to remind herself of happiness. The memories of her friends would lift her spirits during her time in the capital, and Oberyn had arranged to take her back with him after from his own farewell with his brother.

"I'm sorry."

"What if we want to come and cheer you?" 

Sansa takes Jeyla's hands in her own and squeezes, staring at her friend's dark eyes shining with disappointment. Her eyebrows are furrowed with determination, a petulant cast to her mouth.  

"It would cheer me more to know you are here at the Water Gardens happy."  _And safe, as much as one can be._ "Please don't make this any harder then it has to be." Sansa pleads, as Ellyn frowns and Vidre arches an eyebrow coolly. She can't bear her friends being angry with her when she only has their best interests at heart.  

"We won't." Palissa says, glancing sideways at the others before turning back to Sansa with a smile. "You shan't be long, and when you return you can tell us all of your grand adventures." 

"The King's wedding." Cossandra sighs dreamily. "Oh you're lucky, truly. How I'd love to see the Queen's dress." 

Yes, how lucky Sansa is. The thought of the wedding has kept her up all night, and now she has trouble keeping her eyes open in the sweltering heat of the Water Gardens. No breeze from the sea stirs the air around them now, nor sets the trees rustling. It's as if the world itself is waiting with bated breath for Sansa to mount her horse and be away to Kings Landing once more, which held nothing for her except ghosts. She wonders if the pike upon which Father's head rested was still there, though he would long ago have rotted. She shudders, and forces herself to think of the frivial pieces of information her friends will be interested in. There were rumours daily in the pools of the Lady Margaery's dress and the wedding festivities - the latest being that the dress was to have a hundred real roses stiched into the fabric and the back of the dress was to be a golden lion, it's tail being the train of the dress and its head the collar. Sansa think it quite fitting, for is she not courting death kissing and laying with a monster like Joffrey? Why the dress would have the Lannister sigil instead of a stag seemed dubious to Sansa, though with the Lannister's gold mines affording the bulk of the wedding and its entertainment and the Queen regent Cersei in charge perhaps it was to be expected. A stag was too gentle and proud to be Joffrey's sigil anyhow.

"I imagine it shall be very splendid." Sansa says, sure that whatever Margaery looked like she would always be more then Joffrey would ever deserve, and she is sure the food and music and entertainment will be wonderfully exciting if not the groom himself.

Cossandra sweeps her into a light sweet-smelling hug, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. 

"Tell me everything when you return. Have fun." 

She starts the hugs and sincere well-wishes from everyone, and Sansa hugs them back tight in turn and apologises for leaving them so. 

"I suppose we will be one person down in our teams." Ellyn teases, thumping her back as she pulls her in for a bone-crushing hug. By the time her last and most dearest friend is left to say her goodbye they've attracted quite a crowd from the pools nearby, and Palissa flicks her hand for the others to leave. 

They cheerily go, waving backwards as they leave to Sansa's amusement, and she's still laughing at their foolery as she looks at Palissa and marvels at her capability to get anyone to do anything. She's a natural leader, and where she goes Sansa will follow. She obdiently follows her friend as she skirts around the edge of the shallow pool for younger children, past the outdoor showers and slipping through the olive grove.

"Where are you taking me?" Sansa asks curiously, and Palissa's eyes gleam silver in the sun, long eyelashes sweeping her cheeks as she blinks coyly. 

"It's a surprise. You don't have them often do you?"

"I've had them more and more the longer I've been in Dorne." Sansa says quietly, picking her way around several bushes fat with berries. Sand seeps in between her toes, the skinny blades of grass whipping her ankles as they continue to walk. Sansa watches Palissa's sandy curls bounce and sway as they hit her hips, and when she realizes where they are laughs.      

"This isn't a secret." 

An old olive tree, twisted and deformed had been planted years ago at the edge of the boundary lines of the Water Gardens, and as it grew its thick limbs had snared the trees on either side and dragged them down with it creating a shady hidden den beneath the heavy boughs. Many of the older Water Gardens sneak out at night to visit, and various groups of the pools had laid claim to it over the years. So Palissa had told her anyhow, when she'd first brought her to see. She'd said with a self-satisified smile that her and her group had won it somehow (they never would tell her why, to her greatest annoyance, though she knew the stories she made up in her mind were likely more amusing than the truth), and that with Sansa being a part of them had precedence over anything now. Sansa had protested at the time, saying she wasn't special truly, and it wasn't fair, but Palissa had told her with a grin to enjoy the gifts people gave her. A gift within a gift, Sansa thinks as she watches Palissa bend down and venture into the thick shady leaves of the den. 

Sansa follows her, pushing aside the smaller leaves and ducking under the branches at head height. When they reach the centre, Sansa sinks to sit in the pile of sand watching as Palissa tosses a torn leaf over her shoulder and begins to sift through the sand. In the heart of the trees it was balmy and  _green,_ skin and hair different shades aside from the halo of light upon their heads from the small circle above. through which the sun shone bright in the day and the stars at night. 

"What have you found?" Sansa cranes her neck as Palissa lifts a dusty object up from the shallow hole. 

"I didn't find it, I hid it." She grins secretly, shuffling to sit beside her. Her teeth shine bright in the moist shadows of the den, and Sansa wipes sweat off her forehead and tilts her head at the small leather bound book sat in her friend's lap. 

"It's a gift, for you. I didn't want the others to find it, and you never know who'll steal here." 

"Oh Lissa" Sansa sighs. "I can't-"

"Yes you can." Palissa says patiently, pressing the book into her reluctant hands. "And if it horrifies you so, you can return it when you arrive back. I know you do that, for you did the same with Ellaria Sand's necklace as you told me that time we talked of jewelery. Now are you going to look inside or keep protesting?"   

Sansa whispers an apology and runs her hand over the thick dark leather of the book. The pages are crisp and clean, but at the bottom of each is a small illustration. A flower, and on the next a sun, and then a wolf, and sweeping stars. 

"I'm not much of an artist." Palissa murmurs. "But I thought they would cheer you when you write. If your worries or concerns ever get too much and you have no one to talk to, I thought you might write them down. You can rip the pages out and burn them if it makes you feel better, I've done that a lot. Or you can write of your travels so you don't forget a thing when you tell us on your return." She smiles softly. "You don't have to use it, but I thought it might calm you. We won't be there to share your fears or make you feel better, to distract you with games or talk of fashion and music, but you can write in my- your book, and-"

"This was yours?" Sansa breathes. "Lissa..." 

"I don't need it much now. I'm not attending a King's wedding nor married to a Prince, and my grief left long ago. When I was younger I used it all the time. If you look close you'll see where pages have been ripped out." She shrugs. "I thought you need it more then I, and I'll always find another. Prince Doran keeps us in good care, and there's sure to be another spare piece of parchment or book around somewhere after next moons delivery." 

Sansa resolves right then and there that Palissa will get a new book, perhaps with a Myrish portrait on the front, or a cloth of gold covering. And a nice quill too, dyed and decorated to write with. She clutches the book close to her chest and takes a deep breath.

"I will treasure it as much as I treasure our friendship." She says, blinking back tears. "And I'll write letters to you, proper letters that you'll recieve by raven with the latest news. Every day, if I have time."   

Palissa's eyes shine. "Watch out for those Reach girls. They're a spiky lot. Pretty too, probably." 

Sansa hugs her tightly, cheek smushed against cheek. "Nobody can compare to you."

"Of course not." Sansa feels her smile against her shoulder. "I'm the best."

They laugh, and Sansa tucks the memory away to lighten her heart on the journey west, for there was still goodwill and kindness in a world that tried so hard to destroy it. 

* * *

They call in at the Sandship on the way out of Dorne at Sansa's request, for she wanted to know how her household fared and see her finished gift Oberyn spoke of so highly. It took little time to reaquaint herself and find out how the household ran; even at her lowest point Sansa had made sure her household were cared for, and Oberyn had double-checked in her absence at the Water Gardens. No changes needed to be made, and Sansa only told them she'd pay them handsomely on her return from Kings Landing for their dutiful service despite their lady away for weeks on end. 

It doesn't surprise her when she sees Oberyn is not lingering nearby. No, she knows precisely where she will be, and nor does she blame him for it, for the glass window was possibly the most stunning thing Sansa had seen in her life and she knew not the subject it was based upon.  

When she descends the stairs, he stands just where she imagined he would be. Bathed in fractured gold from the sun rays splintering through the multi coloured glass, he gazes up silently at the art. He looks years younger, the lines melting from his face and the tightness of his limbs falling away as he stands bare and exposed, lower lip wobbling with emotion.  

Covered with dust it had been, with the glass worn and dull from the sandstorms that liked to swirl in through the open doors and grand archways that lead to the garden. Nobody can miss it, the way it sits large and grand above the door leading into the main entrance chamber. At first Sansa had thought only to replace it like she had all the others that were not in best condition, but as it was the biggest and most prominent she knew she had to fix it more than the others dotted around the stronghold. She had agonised over what at first, whether it be a simple design of the Martell sigil alike to the others, but the more Sansa had thought of the Martells, and their history with the Lannister's so like hers, the easier it was to decide. Daemon had found a man in his older years who recalled how she'd looked, and now Sansa stands beside her husband gazing up at the tiny figure depicted in the glass. From the way the sun streams in it looks as if she is alive, glowing with health and vitality, the gentle curves of her face soft and motherly, and Sansa stares at the luminous brown fragmants of glass that form her eyes hoping Princess Elia would find it a worthy portrayal. 

"Does it look like her?" Sansa breaks the silence between them, turning her gaze to her husband. 

Oberyn nods wordlessly at her, hand clutching Sansa's tight. She had wondered at times if the gift might upset him and his brother, but Daemon had swore his Prince would love it. He's always right, and she smiles proudly, straightening her spine to look up once more at the pretty glass. It was truly beautiful, and to think possibly centuries from now Oberyn's descendents will know who Elia was and gaze upon her fair face and always be reminded of the horrors in the world - but the beauty too, just like how the sun makes her eyes glow with a secret shared only between you and her. 

He nods.

"How can I ever repay you?" He says finally. Whispering, as if Elia truly laid near and talking too loud would cease the magic of the moment and make her disappear again. She would never disappear now, and Sansa slowly shakes her head.

"You don't have to repay me." She frowns slightly. "You've done so much to me already, this was the least I could do. There's a space on the right I know, I thought to put Rhaenys and Aegon there but I didn't-"

He surges forward and pulls her into a hug. Pressing his lips to her curls again and again, he whispers her name in between like a prayer.  _SansaSansaSansa,_ and when he names her the Maiden incarnate she swoons into him with pleasure even as she breathes back that she can't possibly be. His choked laugh catches her off-guard and makes her laugh as well, and they stand embracing for a long while in the empty entrance hall, quietly laughing on the cusp of tears. 

* * *

The heady fragrance of the plants make Sansa sigh, wishing desperately she could stay there away from the games in Kings Landing. The Sandship was beautiful and carefree, but  she knew if she stayed she'd only be worrying Oberyn or Ellaria would be in danger. Better to go and protect them, and let Joffrey direct his anger to her instead. She couldn't bear it if Oberyn bore the brunt of Joffrey's anger for their marriage, and she knew her husband was wild on his most calm days. What would he do if he defended her honour and she was not around to restrain him? He'd get himself killed most like, and Sansa can't have another death on her conscience. Not her husband, a man so loyal and loving-

Ellaria's laugh takes her out of her worrying, and she watches Tully's legs twitch deep in dreams with her own smile spreading on her lips. 

"I wish I could take them to Kings Landing." Sansa says wistfully, admiring their glossy coats and noses that twitch. They had grown larger in her weeks away, and when she'd arrived earlier she'd been covered in slobber from their eager tongues. Her voice drops to a whisper. "But he would only use them to hurt me."

Just like he'd caused Lady's death, and her heart pinches painfully at the thought of her long dead direwolf. If she had her perhaps she wouldn't be so scared for Kings Landing. She would have been so large now, with teeth and claws aplenty to scare Joffrey. He was a lion cub, and they were no match for a towering direwolf.

"You must try not to be scared." Ellaria smoothes her hair in such a motherly way it makes tears rise to Sansa's eyes. "This time will be different. I promise." 

Sansa doesn't put much stock in promises anymore, but nods all the same. She knows Ellaria will try her best to protect her, even at her own detriment, and how did she deserve such a woman in her life? When Sansa had heard of Prince Oberyn's mistress, she had envisioned cold sneers and jealously, scorn and ridicule and at the very least resentment. Yet Ellaria had given none of this to her and had only been kind and sympathetic to the woman giving Oberyn the one thing she couldn't - the sacred bonds of marriage. 

"I love you Ellaria." She murmurs, and what is one more hug today? There have been so many, yet she cannot tire of them knowing each person intimately in a dozen different ways. Sansa's fingers clench her wide hips, head against her chest as Ellaria continues to stroke her hair. "Ever so much."

"And I love you too." She croons.  _Good,_ Sansa thinks fiercely.  _For it is nice to love and be loved in return, no matter what lies Joffrey told me._

Too soon, far too soon, it was time for bed, and Sansa's eyes had barely shut before it was dawn and she was awoken. They had to get moving quickly to avoid the hot midday sun as much as possible, and Sansa half sleep-walks down to the courtyard where her mount stands waiting. She hides a yawn behind one hand, tugging her silk scarf up over her mouth to avoid sand flying into her mouth as Daemon helps her up into the saddle. 

"You could have brought your friends." Oberyn frowns as they kick their horses into a trot out of the Sandship, out of Sunspear. Soon out of Dorne for good, and Sansa resists the urge to shiver and instead pulls herself up resolutely.

"King Joffrey will like to see me friendless and alone." She shrugs.

"You're not alone," He reminds her. "Not when I'm by your side." 

She smiles at him. "No, I'm not."

She swings her head back to wave at the peasants who shout their names and wave goodbye, eyes watching the golden undulating sand dunes rapidly approaching her. Perhaps with Oberyn, Kings Landing shall not be too bad. She survived the first time on her own, after all, and now she is married to the Prince of Dorne, the Red Viper himself revered by many and feared by all... she just had to survive the journey there first.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stupidly made Margaery Sansa's friend when obviously she wouldn't have been in Kings Landing by the time Sansa left with Myrcella to Dorne. I removed the line that stated her as a friend and hopefully any lines in the story but if not ignore them ;)  
> 

The travelling wearies her. She is constantly sick to her stomach the more dunes of Dorne they cross. Sand sticks to her eyelashes, hair, skin, seems to stick to her very mouth that is constantly dry no matter how much she drinks. She sweats through her dresses within an hour of changing, her hair dry and straggling around her neck, and the tan she'd aquired in the Water Gardens turned red and peeling within the first two days. She looks wretched, feels worse, and it is enough effort to stagger to whatever bed she is to sleep in each night. Not that she is able to sleep, for the thoughts of meeting Joffrey again makes her eyes stubbornly refuse to shut lest she wake up screaming from nightmares.

"You're not well." Oberyn frowns, halfway into their journey.

Tonight the Gods were good and instead of making camp in the blistering desert they had reached the Prince's Pass at noon and were being hosted by Lord Dagos Manwoody, who would join their party at first light with his sons. Near every morning more nobles flocked to their retinue as they galloped through their lands, and despite her discomfort Sansa had been courteous as always. She remembered most of the people from her wedding, and as she'd spent time learning the sigils and history of each Dornish House the names came as easy as ever to her.

Sansa's eyes slide over to their hosts nervously, though Lady Keria only smiles and Lord Dagos is too intent on his next cup being filled to take much notice. Usually there would be grand feasts in celebration of a Prince and Princesses visit, but Oberyn wanted to get to Kings Landing as quick as possible, and waved away all the retinue to converse privately with the Lord and his wife. Kingsgrave was an old castle rich with history, named after the founder of House Manwoody who slew an old King of the Reach in battle many years ago, and Sansa had walked into the Great Hall silently admiring the lavish tapestries hung on the wall. Lord Dagos's son Mors had offered to give her a private tour later, and Sansa wouldn't dream of declining. Sansa was not one to be rude, which is why Oberyn's remark pains her so. Can't he see she is  _trying,_ so terribly to be better? To be  _stronger._

"I'm merely tired, my Prince." She drops her eyes downwards to her plate. She knows she should eat the food, but even the richly scented heat that rolls up into the air sets her stomach swirling. She is being so _so_ rude,yet she has eaten most of the pease and potatoes and valiantly attempted the chunks of meat.

"Tired." His voice is laced with skepticism and Sansa nods. "Yet you do not eat."

"My stomach ails me..." She places one hand on it as it rolls, eyes flickering back up to meet her husband's, who sits beside her with narrowed eyes. "It will pass."

Lady Keria tilts her head and gazes at her. 

I will be well." Sansa states, picking her words carefully. "In a few moons..."

 _After the Wedding, when hopefully King Joffrey will be more concerned with getting a babe on his new beautiful wife._ The thought of Margaery enduring such trials... her fingers tighten on her stomach, digging into the flesh. She had never met the Tyrell girl, but news of her loveliness travelled far and wide, and she feared what Joffrey would do to her.

"Of course you shall." Lady Keria smiles. "It is a great comfort, to be surrounded by family in such times as yours."

Sansa smiles gratefully. "Yes."

"And it will get better, sweetling." Her hand gently pats Sansa's shoulder.

"It is no fault of your own. Give my compliments to your cook, please, for the food is delicious though I confess I have never tasted mountain lion before and know not how it should taste." 

"There are many in the Princes Pass." Lord Dagos says matter-of-factly, moustashe trembling. "They shan't go to waste. Why, just last week one of my guards narrowly avoided being attacked. A bloody nuiscance they are, and when the snakes have been milked even they cannot stop them."  

"I and my brother love lions, yet find little time to hunt them. They don't usually venture past these mountains to Sunspear." Oberyn sighs. 

"Though I heard one had, almost a year past." Lord Dagos chuckles, arching one bushy eyebrow at his friend. 

Oberyn's smile is sword sharp as he takes a sip of wine. "Yes," He acknowledges. "Though I have yet to savour the juiciest."

Sansa smothers a sigh, for as more and more Dornish nobles talk to Oberyn the more he and they display their sense of revenge for the Lannisters. She cannot help but fear it will only end up getting him killed, just as Robb sought to get justice for their Father's death, and not just him, but dozens of his followers too. Surely Prince Doran will not be as foolish as to risk hundreds of his men in a war that will achieve nothing? The Lannister's deaths would be good, but their deaths would not revive her family and make them whole again. They wouldn't bring back Elia or her lost children either no matter what Oberyn thought, and her eyes prickle with tears for the dead as she takes another delicate bite of the spiced potatoes. 

"Princess Sansa." 

She hastily wipes her wet eyes at Lady Keria's concerned expression.

"The spices." She lies. "They still get to me."

"And you must be exhausted too of course. Please, retire and sleep if it suits you. You need not stay on our account."

Oberyn calls an end to their meal then, declaring a private meeting with his old friend Lord Manwoody knowing she would never go of her own accord, and Sansa treks back to their allocated rooms alone.

She shuts the door to her bedchamber and sinks down heavily onto the featherdown mattress, sighing. Five or six more days at most, and she would be riding into Kings Landing to meet Joffrey again. She's not sure what to be more on edge about - Joffrey's glee upon seeing her again, or Oberyn facing the boy King who was everything he hated - and he didn't even know about the beatings he made the Kingsguard give her! She closes her eyes, remembering the way Joffrey had looked the last time she had seen him, glee and annoyance warring on his face as his favourite toy was palmed off to another noble known for his poisonous nature. She shudders, and not wishing to spend more time thinking of such bad things stands back up and goes to find her promised tour guide. Perhaps learning of House Manwoody's history will allow her to forget her wretched own. 

* * *

"My Father called it the wolfsblood." Sansa says, adjusting her skirts as she settles into the saddle. Daemon dutifully hands her the reins and she thanks him with a smile before turning back to her companions. "He said that's why my Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna died young, because a calmer person would act rationally and sensible..." _But Father died anyhow, in the end._  

"He was defending his lady sister's honour." Mors nods, chin jutting upwards. "I'd do the same, if I had one. I only have an annoying brother."

"You could be my brother, if you'd like." Sansa smiles. "I have none left... no sister either."  

Arya definitely had the wolfsblood, Sansa knew, and there had been no word of her since before their Lord Father's execution. Arya was strong, but she was only a child. She had no chance among grown men.The thought of her sister, so small and fierce, running off to die somewhere alone and afraid scared her more then she ever dreamed, and she swallows the lump in her throat painfully. She is Stark strong, she must be as fierce as a wolf, as fierce as Arya was, and Robb and everyone else who has left her too soon. She must envision herself as her beloved Lady. Or - if not Lady perhaps Nymeria, Arya's wolf. She was named after a Dornish Queen after all, and she had attacked Joffrey and escaped his wrath. 

"You couldn't compete with Prince Doran." Mors's brother Dickon argues, curls blowing in the wind. Sansa squints to avoid the dust that swirls upwards, blinking rapidly and tightening her silk veil. It was a beautiful cut of lilac silk, embroidered on the edges and glittering with diamonds, and best of all it protected her from the dreadful sand. "Sansa is lucky to have our ruler as her brother. Imagine-"

"Oh really?" Mors swings his head around to glare. "Prince Doran's sister was raped and died just like Lyanna Stark, but he did nothing to get vengenance. If he had been like Brandon Stark-"

"He would have died too." Sansa says, before she can stop herself. "And Mad King Aerys would have tried to burn Dorne to the ground." 

"I'd like to see a man try." Mors sniffs. "We resisted the dragons for years, did you know? Even Aegon the Conqueror himself couldn't make us kneel when we didn't want to."

"My King, King Torrhen, he bent the knee to save all his people. He loved them so much he didn't want to risk their deaths in a battle he could not win." 

"And that was the best choice for him, but we Dornish do not go down without a fight." Mors grins. 

"Neither do wolves." Sansa says loudly, hands tightening on her reins. "My brother won every battle he fought in, and only died because he was at a  _wedding_ and caught off-guard. If he had fought all the Lannister's in battle he would have won, I know it." 

"The war isn't over." Oberyn's voice makes the trio swing their heads back in surprise. "The Lannister's can still die."   

"My Prince, you talk of treason against the King."

How many times has she said the words? Almost as many as the amount of times she'd protested against having traitor blood in Kings Landing! Yet still he would have her hear his words, and know his thoughts, and make her panic increase!

"It is not treason to say people will die." Oberyn shares a smile with the Manwoody brothers. "Only truth."  

Sansa sighs, kicking her mount on more quickly not wanting to talk any more. Hooves clattering on the red rock underfoot, she enjoys the breeze stirring her hair, blessedly cool on her cheek and fresh on her lips unsuilled by sand and heat. The last week they'd mostly travelled by night, making laborous progress during the day as the heat creeped upwards every hour. Even huddled deep within her tent held no relief, for it was stifling hot under the fabrics and water was a precious commodity carefully shared. Here in the mountains, at last she can find appropriate shelter from the sand storms and rays of sun that would do her harm; her breath might rattle in her dry chest, but she can inhale the sweet dewy scent of  _water._

The Prince's Pass is shadowed from the red mountains that rose up either side, trees stubbornly clinging to life in pockets of shade. She even glimpses a small brook trickling between sand that gives way to rock underfoot as she canters further, and a lizard skitters away from her path under plants covered with fearsome spikes. Trees branches bleached white from the sun extend like bone fingers to stroke the sweaty flanks of her horse, and she ducks her head to avoid their touch, making a sound of horror when she spies the huge spider sat in the middle of its web beside her. 

She directs her mare away, picking her way around rocks as the incline gradually grew steeper. After a while she lets her horse graze the yellowed grass poking up from cracks in the earth, allowing the Dornish to ride ahead who actually knew the best way to navigate through the Pass. Sweat makes her dress stick unpleasantly to her back, but water is more readily available thank the Gods, for she drains her waterskin before midday. 

When they break to let their horses rest and eat in the scorching midday hours, Daemon leads her to a gurgling river half-hidden where it emerges from rock only to flow back in within a few metres. A small river, but clear and deep and the colour of sapphires. Sansa has never seen anything beautiful, and she stands watching the current flow and ebb, the frothy crests of waves shining rainbow in the sun. 

"It's good for animals." Daemon says, as he crouches down to fill her waterskin. "And men. It's one of the reasons why, if the banners are ever called, we camp here." 

"The mountains make it easier to ambush too, I expect." Sansa nods, gaze sweeping over the rocky ridges. Yes, one can see dozens of secret hideaways to lie in wait for unsupecting invaders. 

"Exactly Princess." Daemon smiles, and Sansa smiles, flushing slightly. Daemon was handsome, especially when the sun shone on him so and made his eyes shine brighter then any Sansa has ever seen. "Daeron the I died here, in fact."  

Sansa hesitates before kneeling down beside him. The sand sullies her skirts, but she pays it little mind for she was covered in sweat and sand anyhow just like everyone else. She touches his hand lightly with her own, staring up at his face which creases in concern. 

"Daemon you're Oberyn's squire. He tells you everything doesn't he?" Sansa whispers, looking furtively over her shoulder. There was only a few other squires in their vicinity, also drawing water for the party, and they were blind and deaf to the pair, laughing and joking at ease. 

"He tells me a good deal, yes." He says, dropping his tone to whisper back. "But you know our Prince is secretive."

"Do you think..." She swallows. "Is he truly planning anything?" Her hand claws at his urgently, but he easily pulls his hand away to calm her. 

"Of course not, Princess." He says, his hand heavy on her shoulder as he squeezes reassuringly. "You know Oberyn rarely thinks." His eyes sparkle with mirth. "Much less plan." 

Doesn't he realise that is exactly what Sansa fears! No, her husband rarely thinks unless Sansa prods him to, and even if he is not currently planning some act his words are just as treasonous and given time...

She looks away from Daemon, sighing unhappily. If only there was a way to make Oberyn behave, to make him see, make them all see...  

"Don't cry." Daemon says softly, hand reaching out to wipe away the solitary tear of frustration that drips down her cheek. "You can't waste water here."

She giggles, sniffing as she stands back up. It was good he saw her crying truly, for-

"Sansa?"

She turns at her husband's voice. He's striding his way across the encampment, looking hot and bothered. By the time he reaches the pair he's calmed somewhat, running a hand through his hair messy and thick with sand. 

"I couldn't find you."

"I was thirsty." She explains. "And I thought I'd help Daemon carry the water skins back for everyone."

"Ah. I'll do that, you needn't trouble yourself." Oberyn says briskly, gathering half of them up.

Daemon takes the rest, and Sansa follows after them back to camp, head swimming before she takes several long gulps of water. Weary highborn and servants alike huddle under the trees talking or tending their Sand Steeds nickering softly, tails twitching away flies. Braver souls linger in the sun, head tilted up to the sky inhaling deeply, and men have stripped their shirts off to tie them around their waists. Sansa stares at them wide-eyed, for never has she seen noble men act so, showing so much skin! Already their skin was browner and shiny with sweat, and a great deal of them had muscles one could never imagine rested beneath silk, and-

Sansa jumps, flushing as Ellaria laughs in her ear, twining her arm around Sansa's. 

"You were almost as spooked as Oberyn." Ellaria says amused, eyes lingering on her paramour as he gives a water skin to Lord Dagos. Oberyn shakes his head at something Dagos smirks at, frowning. As they watch, Oberyn looks back at them. The three of them stare for a long second before Oberyn turns away. 

"He's been out of sorts since talking to Lady Keria." Ellaria whispers to Sansa. "If I didn't know him I'd say she had propositioned him." She laughs.

"Would he have refused?" Sansa wonders, as Ellaria leads her to the shade. 

"Perhaps marriage has made him chaste."

Sansa stares at Ellaria. Ellaria's lips twitch with amusement before she laughs, and Sansa joins in. Oberyn, chaste! The man known for his eight bastard daughters and paramour. No, Oberyn was not one to be chaste. Before, Sansa would have found it a most miserable marriage having a husband who strayed and played with others, but now Sansa finds it a blessed relief. Certainly it takes the pressure off her to bed him, for he rarely sleeps in her bed, and when he does - well it is only sleeping they do together.  

"I wonder what she said." Sansa muses.

"He has shared nothing with me."

"Nor I." Sansa assures her, and the pair watch him awhile as he drifts to different groups and talks. Sansa should join him, but she's so cool she couldn't fathom moving from her spot. Ellaria takes off her veil and scrapes her hair back from her face beginning to plait it, and Sansa lazily eats grapes. 

"Is it much further, to Kings' Landing?" Sansa murmurs. "I do hate travelling. I ache all over from the saddle, and I'm so _hot_  all the time." 

"It's cooler the further we climb up into the mountains." Ellaria promises her with a chuckle.

"At least there's no more sand." Sansa sighs. It was well and good for the first hour or so, but after leagues of nothing to see but the endless desert, it got boring, and it was too hot to have a proper conversation, and if they opened their mouths more often then not sand would find its way inside.

"Do you dislike me so much?"

Sansa laughs.

"Some Sands I like." She brushes her dress free of dust. "But not that one." 

* * *

Skin wet with the salve administred by Ellaria to stop her poor skin burning even more badly, Sansa looks around with interest as her horse picks its way up the Mountain.

Here hawks circle above and call out to one another, and snakes rattle in the thorny underbrush that line the path. The sky is streaked amber and violet above, the sun crimson as it began to fall gracefully to the horizon and let the moon shine in its place. Already the temperature is dropping to an easy warmth that allows their travel to quicken, and they canter in pairs or threes up the mountain path. Beside her, Daemon points out various plants and animals as they pass, talking of flowering cacti and twisted gnarled trees called sandbeggers, describing the rattle of a snake and what to do if her horse ever shied away and was struck.

 _He is truly a good man_ , Sansa thinks to herself as he laughs recounting a tale of his youth when he and his friends had found a scorpion,  _I must talk of Arianne more with him, and reconcile them._ She knows they'd like that, for she sees the way Daemon's eyes soften when he talks of his Princess. An younger Sansa would have sighed dreamily and called it romantic, but Sansa knows it only as reality - but she could change it couldn't she? It would make the both of them happier, so surely interceding on their behalf was an act of goodwill? She just knows they'd thank her in the end for bringing them back together, and if she did Arianne would never kiss Ser Arys again, only good and kind Daemon. 

"Look Princess Sansa. Don't say a word now, or you'll scare it." 

Her brooding vanquished for the time being, she turns to where Daemon points. On a stone beside the path, a lizard sits, beady black eyes watching them and tongue flickering out to taste the air. It's legs stick up, one and two, before he switches the pair and Sansa breathes in sharply with amusement and wonder.

"It's feet are hot from the stone." Daemon whispers. "When it's turned a bit cooler he'll go off hunting."

"He's so cute." Sansa giggles, charmed by the little fellow that skitters away at her laughter.

After a while Daemon hangs back to talk to another squire, and Sansa kicks her mare into a gallop.

Hair whipping backwards, veil rippling, periwinkle cloak swirling and flapping as it caught the gusts of wind, she coughed away the red dust that flew from her horse's hooves and imprinted on her skin like bloody fingers. The sky was dark around her by the time she allowed her horse room to breathe. Lathered with sweat, her Sand Steed whickers softly as she slows to a walk. In the night, the scalding colours of Dorne were softer, dappled shades of silver. Up above, the sky twinkled with stars and the breeze that tugged at Sansa's hair and clothes was starting to turn cold on her bare skin. She stifles a yawn, watching a vulture spread wings in flight towards a large pile of rocks. Heaped atop each other, it stood quite alone and conspicious among the rugged mountains around it.   

"It used to be a tower." Oberyn voice is a scant murmur beside her. He is so close his boots knock against her own as their horses walk side by side. "The Tower of Joy, I heard someone call it." 

_The Tower of Joy._

The name niggles at her, but she doesn't know where she's heard it before. Perhaps it was in a song, or story. She could easily imagine a lonely maiden in a tower awaiting her lover, with no else around for miles to see their joyful reunion; his hand cupping her head, his lips hot on hers, dark locks tumbling down his back as she gasps. She shivers pleasantly at the image before reality creeps in. It was just a pile of rocks, broken stone and rubble heaped in a pile burning from the sun above. 

"But it was torn down." She says, staring at the bricks imagining how grand and tall it once stood. "What could be less joyful?" 

"Your Father tore it down." 

Sansa stares at him wide-eyed, and then she recalls why the name was familiar to her.

"My Aunt Lyanna died there. And my Father's friends."

Prince Rhaegar kidnapped her aunt and hid her in his wife's own kingdom, raping her and leaving her so weak she caught a fever and died as Father found her. It wasn't a good song, Sansa knows. It was a story sad enough to weep for, and she thinks fondly of the statue in the crypt at Winterfell that was almost always covered with flowers her Lord Father himself laid. She hopes one day she can lay flowers on her Father's statue one day, if she ever returned North. Her mouth twists unhappily; Starks seem to experience only agony in Dorne. Sweat trickles down her neck, mouth furred and lips cracked, and she adjusts her veil before taking a swig from her waterskin.  

"Perhaps I'll rebuild it for you one day." Oberyn says lightly. "Sansa's Tower."

She shakes her head, staring at her hands. Skin cracked and travel-worn, she picks at a blister unsettled. She didn't want a tower named after her, especially not one associated with such despair. The Gods like to mock and play their games; she wonders how her Aunt felt, dying in a tower called Joy. 

"I think the dead should be left at peace." She whispers, looking up at her husband willing him to understand. 

He is blind to her, eyes burning as he gazes over her shoulder at the relic.  

"Ghosts are persistant things." 

"I know." Sansa's heart aches. "Do you not think I don't? But to live well we must quieten then sometimes. You taught me that, and my friends at the Water Gardens. I know in Kings Landing it will be hard, but we shall not be there long. We'll leave as soon as appropriate, and mayhaps after our ghosts will leave us." 

"When we have satisfied them, yes." Oberyn nods, focusing back on her.

"Killing won't satisfy them." Sansa forces herself to say the words. "Only yourself."

Oberyn makes a noise of affront, and they stare silently at each other in the night. A stray lock of hair blows against Sansa's lips set in a thin line of disapproval, and Oberyn tilts his chin up defiantly. An impasse, lasting at least a minute before Oberyn sighs sharply and digs his spurs into his stallion at her silence. He gallops away, hair streaming behind him, and Sansa watches him go with tears building up in her eyes. 

Were they fated to fall apart when they had only begun to be together? How could he not _see?_  If only there was a way to make him not seek revenge, and keep him focused on surviving Joffrey himself! He was more important then those long gone, for he was living and breathing and her husband. She was too young to be a widow. If he died... what would she do? Where would she go? She had to make him see his lust for revenge was trivial compared to the King who sat the throne eagerly awaiting their arrival.

She straightens up in her saddle and drys her eyes, for tears were not to be shed lightly in Dorne. Falling into place beside Ellaria, no questions are asked that night, only hands held in shared solace for their future. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Oberyn's dialogue I copied from their first encounter in ASOS :)

_Breathe in._

King Joffrey cannot hurt her any longer, she is a married woman. 

 _Breathe out._  

But when has that stopped him? Before she was to be married to him, and he tortured her anyway. Perhaps now he will be jealous. Her chest tightens, heart hammering in her chest and sickness lurches in her stomach. 

_Breathe in._

Her husband is known as the Red Viper, a known poisoner. Does that comfort or chill her? Erratic, passionate, unpredictable. It could go either way. He could be adored by Joffrey, fawned over and idolized for being saddled with Sansa. Or he could be hated above all, a foreign enemy who could not be trusted - and everyone knew what Joff did to people he could not trust. The last man to act in such a way had his head cut off. 

 _Breathe out._  

She knows Oberyn has far delayed his coming because of her, with the royal wedding only three weeks away. The summons had been a while ago, Ellaria had confided to her, but he'd kept deferring for as long as possible. She'd smiled then, and said it was no bother for it only irritated the Lannister's more - something Oberyn clearly loved. They should have been here weeks ago, if they'd kept to plan. She's unsure if that's a good thing, for as she watches her husband, he laughs with Lady Blackmont as if he has not one care in the world.

His mouth runs so freely, with talk of the independence of Dorne and of Sansa being a Princess twice over she fears what will happen when stood in the same room as his enemies. Would he imply the revenge he desperately wants and get himself killed? Or act as swift as the snake he is called? Either way will only bring death or serious punishment for him, and Ellaria, and his children and Sansa. If only there was a way to stop him, something she could say or do to make him think before he spoke! Perhaps he would be quiet for her sake, but the uncertainty is not enough. She needs to make sure he’ll stay calm as the waters that surround the Water Gardens and win favour with the King. If she had to gaze upon another head of someone she loved while Joffrey taunted her… She sighs heavily.

Ahorse at the front of the party, her husband's helm glitters bronze in the autumn sun reflecting the light, and her vision is suddenly spotted and stained with blackness. She blinks rapidly, head spinning and forehead clammy, tongue tangled as she clenches Ellaria's fingers tight.   

"Sansa, you look ill." She frowns across at her. They ride so close their leather boots knock together. "Have you been drinking enough?"

She nods, but willingly takes the waterskin Ellaria pushes into her hand. She'd given her morning food to her horse as her stomach ailed her so, but nobody needed to know that. She takes a deep gulp of water, and another, forcing herself not to splutter as it trickled down her tight throat. Her fingers tremble as she gives it back to her companion, who strokes her cheek. Her hands are cool, and Sansa leans into them, eyes fluttering closed. 

"I'm perfectly well." She lies, somehow managing to summon up a smile. "Merely excited to see Kings Landing once more. I shall have to show you around if we have time."

Ellaria eyes the barren land around them warily, though they are at the rear of the party whose talk and laughter is only gaining in volume the closer they ride to the capital.  The scorched black ground they ride upon is evidence of the Battle of the Blackwater, though Sansa had heard little of it whilst within Dorne. Most like as not to scare Princess Myrcella, though Sansa can't help viciously wishing Lord Stannis had won and now sat the Iron Throne instead. He wouldn't make her come to Kings Landing if she didn't want to, she knew. He certainly would not torture her as Joffrey doubtless intended.

"If you were my daughter, I would not have let you come." Ellaria whispers into her ear. "A woman can live without seeing a wedding." 

"I like weddings." Sansa says. "They are great causes for celebration, a union of ancient houses that-"

Ellaria shushes her, crooning under her breath as she pushed away strands of hair that stuck to Sansa's damp forehead. 

"Will you be my bed-mate?" Sansa asks. "I shall need help whilst I am here. Someone to take care of me if I am ill."

She dare not bring her own maids with her, resorting Oberyn to bring a trio from the Old Palace as it would be unsuitable for a Princess of Dorne to not have any help. She dearly hopes Ser Arys has not passed on information of her friends to the King and Queen Cersei... surely they will care only for Myrcella's friends? Better for them to think she had none.  

"Of course, my sweet." Ellaria kisses her forehead delicately. "I believe we shall be fine bed-mates." 

They share a smile, and Sansa agrees that it will be nice to lay beside a familiar body in bed. With Ellaria, no other could creep in unknowing. Back in Winterfell, before, she had shared her bed with Jeyne Poole or Beth Cassel, whispering of dewy-eyed dreams where handsome knights swept them off their feet, pressed their mouths delicately against their own. She wonders if they were still alive what they would think, of her being married to a Martell. When she shared her bed at the Water Gardens with Palissa and Vidre, Jeyla and Cossandra and Ellyn, she would spend half the night laughing and playing funny stupid games before talk turned to her friend's deviant behaviour with men (and sometimes women too). Ellaria... she is more fierce than any of her friends, and a woman grown for far longer. She will protect her, won't she? Surely she would not let anyone do her harm.

Little words pass before them as time moves too quickly, and before Sansa can seemingly blink she is pulling her horse to a stop hidden behind all the nobles praying nobody notices. Rippling banners snapping in the wind, and the various Lords and Ladies clustered beyond clothed in bright jewels create good cover for her, and she stares down at her hands fisted into the reins of her horse. Knuckles white with tension, fingers screaming in agony, sun beating down on her back, and she inhales sharply in preperation. On edge, waiting for his voice to name her, usher her forward to greet him...   

"Well met, my Lords."

Sansa sags with relief at the sound of Tyrion Lannister. She is spared King Joffrey's presence a while longer then, which she collects herself.

"We had word of your approach, and His Grace King Joffrey bid me ride out to welcome you in his name. My lord father the King's Hand sends his greetings as well. Which of you is Prince Doran?"

"My brother's health requires he remain at Sunspear." Oberyn removes his helm and Sansa can hear the smirk in his voice. "Prince Doran has sent me to join King Joffrey's council in his stead, as it please His Grace, though I have brought my lovely wife Princess Sansa as Joffrey commanded."

"His Grace will be most honoured to have the counsel of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn of Dorne." Tyrion replies. "And your noble companions are most welcome as well, in particular the Lady Sansa of course. I am sure his Grace will be ever so pleased at her return."  

No doubt, Sansa thinks with a sardonic twist of her lips, he shall think her the finest thing every imported from Dorne. 

* * *

She cannot say how she travelled through Kings Landing and into the throne room, only that suddenly she is there, the wide oak and gold doors creaking open to permit her entrance as the Iron Throne loomed before her.

Dress sweeping limply behind her, tentative steps on the marble floor echoing and clashing loudly in her brain, her skin prickles, feeling the eyes of the court and royal family boring into her. _Cersei, she had almost forgotten of Queen Cersei-_ Her fingernails dig into her clasped palms hard enough to draw blood, and she lifts her head high and keeps her eyes pinned on the boy slouched on the throne.

 _He has grown_ , Sansa thinks stupidly. It had been near enough a year she had been gone after all, yet in her imagination time was suspended and he was unchanged. Sweat dampens her neck where hairs prickle uneasily; Joffrey smiles. His smile had not changed at least, she had seen it almost nightly in her dreams and reality measured it well. Fat red worms wriggling together with satisfaction, eyes as green as jade jewels following her progress. She must not let him see how nervous she was... though perhaps that was a good thing? He would like that, to know he affected her so... 

"Your Grace, Prince Oberyn Martell and his wife the Princess Sansa." A herald introduces them as they come to a stop before the dais. 

Oberyn sweeps into a bow and Sansa ducks into a low curtsey, fingers clenched in her skirts. Black spots dance again in front of her and she squeezes her eyes shut for a long second. She forces her eyes to open again and gazes up at the King. He sneers down at her penetratively, lips jutted out with discontent. What can she do, to please him? She is deaf to Oberyn's welcome, only hearing the disorientedly loud laughter that comes with Joffrey's reply, and when it finally subsides, ears ringing, she knows it is her turn at last to speak.  

"Your Grace," She says, pleased her voice carries around the cavernous room. "I am ever so pleased to be reaquainted with you once more. I hope you forgive me for my appearance, travelling does not agree with me."

Joffrey laughs, and at the sound a smattering of giggles erupt in the gallery. She spares the court not one glance, eyes interlocked with her King. Shining in cloth of gold and crimson silk, with his crown nestled atop his curls, he taps his fingers on his thighs and leans forward to get a better look at her. 

"You look sick as a pig." 

"I do, Your Grace." Sansa says humbly. She truly does, stinking of sweat and sand. "I do not deserve the title of Princess." 

"No, you don't do you?" He agrees. "You're a Dornish whore, remember? Get up."

She stands, head swimming, swaying on her aching feet, and Oberyn's hand clamps down on her wrist to steady her. She is pleased Joffrey seems to notice, even more so as she tries to tug her arm away.  

"My wife is unwell." Her husband stares up at Joffrey with a restrained calmness Sansa distantly approves of. "Might we be dismissed? We all are tired and hungry."  

Joffrey considers his request for a moment, head tilted. _Say yes, say yes, please say yes so I can leave...we have done the greetings you have laughed at me and insulted me let me go-_  

"Yes you can, Prince Oberyn."

Sansa hides a sigh of relief with a well timed cough, covered discreetly with one hand. She can go be in her bedchamber, bathe at long leisure and collect her thoughts for the next battle between them for there would be more, and plenty brutal. She can sip wine and nibble at fruit and feel the nerves within her slowly crawl away and retreat for the night, where she will sleep with Ellaria and perhaps plait their hair and whisper stories. Oberyn's hand rests on her back, directing her to turn, and she does so willingly, sagging with relief against his reassuring weight half a step behind her. And then- _and then and then and then-_  

"I should like the chance to catch up with the LadySansa privately."

So close, she was so close to getting what she wanted. Isn't she always? Never, never tight within her grasp, always reaching out hopelessly, helplessly. Eternally disappointed and left sorrowful, and she nods her head up and down as if she were one of the puppets in mummer shows. Like Jonquil and Florian, but she was the fool. _Be brave, like a lady in a song._ She unlocks her frozen limbs and turns back to him with a sweet smile, willing wordlessly for her husband to comply. 

"Whatever you wish to say to her, you can say to I also." Oberyn says with forced cheer, angling his body to shield her from his wrath. Sansa isn't stupid - she knows it is not Joffrey himself she needed protection from, rather his collection of Kingsguard that surrounded them at every side. Oberyn may well be known as the Red Viper, but even he could not protect her from so many at once.

Joffrey's eyebrows hike upwards, and Sansa slips away from Oberyn's shadow to stare at him defiantly. Blood runs hot in her veins as they regard each other, two foes so long apart. How did she once look upon his face and think himself a gallant Prince? 

"As you wish." Joffrey shrugs, eyes never once straying from hers as he descends from the throne. 

_What does he want of me?_

He saunters forward, one sure foot at a time, and cold dread covers Sansa's body. Oberyn is beside her but has never felt so far away, and the very air between them seems to become noxious, strangling her slowly. Every soul in the room has their breath held, but he only... he only...

Grasping her limp hand, he delicately presses his worm lips upon her knuckles in a basic act of courtsey that makes Sansa's gut twist into knots.  _What does he want?_ So close she can see each individual golden eyelash, the beautiful emeralds of his eyes. Inches from her own face, he leans in and for one moment she believes he is going to  _kiss_ her, in front of court and family and  _Oberyn-_

"Are you happy in your marriage?"

His voice is so soft, so perfectly pitched to sound courteous and concerned, the question so _unexpected,_ that it gives Sansa a momentary pause. She blinks at him uncertainly, unsure of what cruel game he was playing. He can't care for her truly, only... he doesn't want her to be happy does he? He wants to make her miserable, but if she already is, he cannot harm her as much...

It is not hard at all to summon tears barely hidden at bay. "No, Your Grace."

Her bottom lip quivers and she sucks in a shallow breath, eyes flickering down to her feet so he could not see the hatred that burned deep within them. _Give him what he wants, and he cannot hurt me as badly._

"He rapes me nightly."

His laugh startles her, and everyone within the hall begins to guffaw and giggle, and Sansa's face is aflame. Revulsion crawls on Sansa's skin as his eyes rake over her slim figure and she purses her lips, feeling the stiffness of Oberyn beside her. Joffrey's warm breath wafts over her face, hot and wine scented and it turns her stomach. She takes a deep breath, placing one hand on her churning belly. When she looks up his eyes are boring into her own, alight with joy over her imagined trials.

"In fact," Sansa says, fingers slipping down the clammy silk fabric of her dress to rest lightly atop her flat stomach. "You shall be pleased to know I am with child."


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard to believe it's been a year since I started this story! Thank you so much for all the kind inspiring reviews that cheer me up when I'm down and encourage me to write better. I read every single one (even though I'm rubbish at replying, forgive me) and still can't believe so many people love this story so much. Over two million hits! You're all awesome! Thanks again :) x

Silence. 

If it were any other time, Sansa might have had a quiet lonesome giggle hidden behind one hand at the look on Joffrey's face. Certainly there were many different parts to pick and smile at, from the way his green eyes bulge to the way his skin turns an equal shade before becoming mottled with the ugly red flush creeping up his neck. Perhaps it were only the mere fact that Sansa had hardly ever seen Joffrey with so little to say that made her so delighted, that made vindictive pleasure overtake the fear that she had perhaps made a fatal move and foolishly delivered her own head upon a silver platter. His tongue squirms over his fat lips as he looks at her flat stomach where Sansa's hand still rests, and a strange noise half splutter half snort chokes from him. 

"Truly?" 

Sansa nods. He recovers remarkably quickly at that, shoulders hunching upwards, nose turning into the air. 

"Well I can't say I'm surprised. I always knew you were a slut, and Prince Oberyn likes to make babes upon any woman."

"If it's a boy, we're going to name him Joffrey. Would you like that?" Sansa smiles widely. 

"Yes, I would." Joffrey's smile is even wider then hers. "You'll always be reminded of me then, and how I beat your brother." 

Sansa flinches, smile slipping from her face. She remembers being in this very throne room as he commanded the Kingsguard to beat her for her brother's actions, remembers standing atop the parapet willing herself to push him over the edge, telling him Robb would have his head... yet Robb was gone, and here Joffrey stood before her unharmed, well, and more then ready and willing to harm her again. He, who took his anger and wroth out on her when there was no substitute, who was too craven to go meet her brother in the battlefield for he knew he would die. 

"You didn't beat him." Sansa says despite herself, heat simmering in her veins. "You _murdered_ him at my Uncle's Wedding."

"He deserved it." Joffrey says petulantly, scowling. "Maybe I'll murder you at my wedding."

_Or maybe someone will murder you._

"I'd like to see you try."

Sansa had almost forgotten Oberyn still stood beside her. He had been so quiet - _too quiet -_ that she had paid him no notice during her talk with Joffrey. Now her gaze swivels up to his barely daring to breath. Face a black fury, and jaw clenched so tight Sansa worries in the back of her mind that he might shatter his teeth beyond repair, and she swallows thickly willing him not to say anything else.  

Before the King can react, Queen Cersei glides before him and lifts one hand elegantly.

"Prince Oberyn. It has been far too long since we last met." 

Oberyn has no choice but to kiss her knuckles and murmur a terse greeting. She has never looked more beautiful, Sansa notes miserably. Bedecked in Lannister crimson, with rubies around her neck and rings of gold glinting on her fingers, her crown of blonde curls trembles down her back as Cersei charms the Dornish nobles behind Sansa and Oberyn. Greeting them all by name, scarlet painted lips tilted upwards in aloof amusement, and Sansa is instantly forgotten in the Queen's grandeur. All except her husband it seems, whose heavy hand on her hip promises he has private words for her later. She shivers at the mere thought of his anger, despite not ever having truly seen it before, and hopes fervently that he will understand why she said what she did and how it was a good thing truly and thank the gods she had already arranged for Ellaria to be by her side always! Surely she will temper the rage in her lovers heart, and help him see clearer. She had done it to save the three of them, to save all of them. Surely he cannot hate her for that? Surely he cannot punish her for caring so deeply? 

"You must be terribly tired from your travels, particulary the Lady S-"

" _Princess._ " 

"Princess." Cersei agrees, mouth tight. Sansa dare not look in her direction too long, instead fixing her anxious gaze upon her sore feet. "Sansa must be tired in her condition. Ser Boros will escort you to your chambers where you may rest before the welcoming feast." 

Sansa's head snaps up at the name, for Boros was the Kingsguard member who had beat her most. He was always foul faced except- except when he hit her. He would always smile after, Sansa remembers with her blood turnng cold. Only for a small second, a savage grin of satisfaction before the fierce glower slipped back into place leaving her wondering if she had imagined it. A smile identical to the one he directed at her now, and Sansa's hand rises sharply from her stomach to cling Oberyn's arm. Fingernails digging into his new doublet, her head spins and her legs tremble as they walk away from the King and his sullen dismissal prompted by his Mother.  

"I should like to go to the Godswood, if I may." Sansa raises her quavering voice over the din of dozens of footsteps along the marbled corridors. "I have missed praying to the Old Gods, and it is nice and quiet there. I think you would appreciate the solitude my Prince... I know I would."

Oberyn takes one look at her face and nods.  _Good,_ Sansa thinks faintly, even as she sees the anger blazing in her husbands eyes and remains vigilant of Boros before her, studying the slope of his shoulders to see if he intended to turn and do anything untoward towards her. When the party have been safely delivered to their new rooms in a cornerfort overlooking the city, Sansa tugs at Oberyn's arm softly. She is glad Ellaria immediately sets to helping Daemon allocate rooms to the various nobles and ordering where their trunks be placed. Perhaps it is better this way, to have no third party trying to counsel their words. They could talk freely without fear, for Sansa knew people rarely went into the sprawling Godswood, and certainly no Southerners ventured near the strange faced Heart tree. 

They walk in silence, Sansa leading the way with quick, sure steps. In her dreams, sometimes she's still trapped in the Keep never finding a way out. She walks a million miles with bleeding feet yet still remains bruised and beaten. She shudders, pretending the goosebumps that sprout on her body are from the breeze fluttering her hair and kissing her cheeks. Unlike the silence with Joffrey, theirs is not stifling, and Oberyn never hastens her pace, merely lopes beside her strong and steady. And silent. Sansa listens to their feet crunching on fallen leaves and agonises over how exactly she will begin her speech. She needs him to see, she needs him to support her. Hasn't he supported her already though? He could have called out her lie before all court, but he instead sprang to her defence when the Lannisters debased her. 

When they reach the Heart tree, Sansa's own heart beats doubly fast. There was something riveting about the weeping red face gazing out serenely over the forest, something _homely._ It reminds her of windswept winter days, snow melting in her hair and the laughter of her red-cheeked siblings. Damp cloaks and icy hands and so much _love._ Tears bead in her eyes, and she hadn't realised she'd fallen to her knees until her hands are pressed against the smooth white oak of the tree. Cold beneath her fingertips, and she lets out a shuddering breath as tears threaten to burst from her chest. Aching, she turns to her husband. Couldn't he see? She has lost too many people already. She doesn't want anymore to add to the too-long list.

"I was doing it to protect us." She finally says, voice thick. "To protect _you._ "    

To calm his hot-headed ways, to remind him that there were innocents aplenty that had died already and they must tread carefully in a place that rewarded killers and murdered innocents. To stop him from becoming nothing but a sweet memory lingering in the back of her mind for the rest of her days.

"You've made it worse." His voice is tight with poorly concealed rage and laced with agony, and Sansa's stomach drops. The tears well in earnest then, and she blinks rapidly trying to talk past the lump that settles in her throat. She tries to find the words to say she's sorry (she's not), that she can't bear him to be angry at her, that she lov-

"What will he do, when he discovers your little trick hmm? When your stomach doesn't grow?" 

"We'll leave straight after the Wedding, and we'll send a raven saying I was mistaken, or I lost the child. He'll like that." Sansa says earnestly. "Please don't be mad at me Oberyn I was just trying to protect us." 

Tears will only make him panic. _I must be brave now, braver then ever before. For Robb, and Father and all the rest._ _For her husband and the family she still had left in Dorne._ She steels herself for his reaction and begins to explain.

"I was just trying to please our King. I don't want to stay here and I thought- I thought if I made up this lie it would force us to leave for Sunspear straight after the Wedding." She admits, a twist of guilt stabbing deep in her chest that makes her squirm. "I thought If I gave Joffrey what he wanted maybe he wouldn't hurt me again and get the Kingsguard to beat me. I thought saying I was with child would stop all of it. I thought it was clever, and I see you're angry and I should say I'm sorry but I'm _not." S_ he takes a deep breath and then another, blinking away the wetness and meeting her husband's gaze direct.

She was a wolf, and wolves did not weep. She clears her throat, trying to pick her next words carefully. She could talk for hours trying to explain her feelings and thoughts, yet she knew it would only be the start of a confession mountains high. How best to convey the magnitude of emotions that battered around her insides? 

"I'm not sorry for protecting myself and you in the only way I know how." She says defiantly. "We'll be long gone soon and will no longer need to live a lie. We will be far away and safe and I  _need_ you. You have supported me from the first time we met Oberyn, and I need you now more then ever." Her hand reaches out to grip his, blue eyes meeting black. "My Prince, my  _husband,_ please..."

Please what? Don't abandon her and turn her over to the lions? Stupid, for Oberyn would never do that even if he hates her after what she has done. Don't lose faith? Did he even have faith in her to begin with? She surpresses the sudden bout of hysteria that threatens to make her laugh, and clenches his fingers all the more tighter willing him to understand, to smile and jape and hold her close. 

"Don't you trust me?" 

"It is not you I don't trust! It is everyone else in this godforsaken city!"

Sansa wants to weep like a child, to beg his forgiveness, to choke out lies but she is sick of it all. Sick of lies and fear and the agony of not knowing what tomorrow might bring. She won't apologize for trying to save her husband from harm. She won't apologize for being deceiving, for hadn't she suffered enough? If a lie was for good purposes, how could it possibly be bad? This mistruth will stop so many hateful things - Joffrey's wrath, Oberyn's reckless anger, the Kingsguards blows raining down on her body. After so long, surely she deserves to be a little selfish. Just this once. Surely nobody would shame her for acting so...

She only wants to stop a second round of beatings and an onslaught of cruel taunts that worm under her skin and take months to dig out. She only wants to alleviate some of the sickening fear that her King could take her at any moment and do whatever he desired. She only wants to keep Oberyn safe, and Ellaria, and all the Dornish who had come with her, and what better way than a baby? She just wants to keep _herself_ safe. She isn't like Oberyn's daughters with their spears and whips and poisons. Sansa only knows how to please people, and how better to please Joffrey then have him think she faces a brutal bloody birth from the product of horrific rape? Surely it will delight him, brute monster that he is? It makes Sansa's skin crawl at the mere image of Oberyn forcing himself upon her, but hadn't she thought him capable before she truly knew him? Won't the Lannisters readily accept the truth from the feeble traitor's daughter shipped off to marry the poisonous Red Viper? A man who struck fear into the child he was to marry long before they first met, a man who had many rumors to his name each worse then the last?  

"Joffrey won't hurt me now." She wonders if she says the words enough she'll fully believe them in time.

"And you're sure of that are you?" He snaps, throwing away her hand and rearing his head back so his long black hair flies around him like a raincloud. Stormy and fierce, but Sansa refuses to be cowed. She knows despite his anger he would never hurt her... not deliberately anyhow. "The boy who ordered your Father's own head on a pike!" 

"I've given him what he wants. Don't you _see?_ He wants me to suffer in a miserable marriage pregnant with a child that might just kill me!"

Oberyn snorts brusquely. "You're right Sansa. This imaginary babe might just kill you."  

"I can lie well." Sansa says after a measured moment where she swallows the hurt, voice as frosty as the glaciers in the seas up North. "Better then you think, I believe. I learnt it well during my time held hostage as a traitors daughter." 

A charged silence descends upon the pair, and Sansa takes a deep breath. She hadn't meant to get so angry and vile, but as Oberyn had continued to talk her plan which had seemed so good and foolproof at the time cracked and splintered and she grew more desperately anxious to prove she was right. She can't possibly be wrong... if she's wrong she's dead. Her, and Oberyn, and Ellaria, and who knew however many more? She doesn't resent Oberyn's anger, welcomes it even, for she had expected it the minute the lie had been told.  _He's only angry because he cares,_ she tells herself. 

"I will keep up with your ruse and be as courteous as able to the lions." He finally says, staring at her with blazing eyes and clutching her fingers tight in his hands. "... You have been around them longer, I trust you know how to handle Joffrey. I only ask you return the favour in kind and support my own schemes against his elders."

Sansa very much doubts they are as innocuous as her own fake pregnancy, and is positive they involve Lannister deaths. She should be happy at the thought, but he cannot kill every golden haired member of the Royal family no matter how hard he desires or tries. Does she dare say no? She  _has_ to say no, or spend the scant remaining time of her life the traitor Joffrey had named her as before he beheads her just as he had Father. The thought of Oberyn seeing her die, or her seeing him, before their heads were sent to Dorne chills her to the bone, and two stubborn tears leak out of her eyes despite all her determination. They slide down her cheeks yet she makes no move to wipe them away. She gazes at him agonizingly, trying to convey all the tangled thoughts and feelings swirling within her, before, face drawn together in pain, she answers.

"I can't." 

Two words, they are only two little words, yet she feels the huge chasm they open between the pair of them as if it were a physical act. This soft, firm refusal was more cutting than the words spoken before with heated passion, and Sansa instantly feels colder. Oberyn pulls his hand away from hers and absently pats it as if she were a stranger, a child, as if she were Dorea's age. As if she were anyone but his wife.  

"I'm sorry, but I can't." Her voice cracks. "I can't support you trying to get us all killed."

He inhales tightly, lurching to his feet and striding away through the trees without a second glance back. He leaves her sitting there in the autumn leaves, slack jawed and tearful. 

Does she regret it? She picks a blood-red leaf apart with trembling fingers, shuddering breaths loud in the stifling silence around her. She can't honestly decide yes or no. Was it better, to save her husband, and leave him hating her? Or instead to assist him lovingly and loyally and only bring about everyone's death? Better to have him hate her, she decides after a long while. Better for him to live and breathe and love Ellaria and his children, then die an empty death and bring others to the grave.  

She clasps her hands together, staring up at the wizened face of the Heart Tree brooding over the clearing.

"Help him see." She begs the Old Gods. "Let him learn to live with the hatred in his heart as I do, and not let his actions cause more death." 

_Am I a bad person?_

The thought rattles around her brain as she drags her heavy body back to the Red Keep. Was she cruel, to deny Oberyn his justice yet plough ahead with her own plans? She walks past the nobles as if in a dream, and when she approaches the entrance of the bedchamber Daemon had allocated her, she lingers on the threshold unsure if she could face Ellaria.

She had not given much thought to how she would take her declaration, but surely she above all else would know she spoke a lie. She would never bed Oberyn without talking to her, much less announce a pregnancy. She can't be mad can she? She can understand and accept Oberyn's anger, for it only came from a place of concern and fear for her, but Ellaria... If Ellaria were to treat her so cold she couldn't bear it. She needs her more then ever and she wants... she wants a _hug._  She wants someone to hold her close and reassure her she is right and it will all work out and Oberyn will be sensible and safe and forget his anger towards her. 

Ellaria finishes organising her perfume bottles and turns to see her stood rooted in the doorway. A fragile figure, hands hanging limply by her sides as she tries to find words.

Sansa had intended to be as steely resolved as she was in the Godswood, but the moment Ellaria's face creases with concern she trips forward into her open arms surrendering to the raging torrent of emotions fighting inside her. She tries to  _explain,_ but her voice breaks on a sob, the sound of which only makes her cry harder when she realises she is being exactly the opposite of what she wanted to appear as. She scrubs at her face furiously, feeling betrayed by her own body, but now she's started she's finding it hard to _stop._

Ellaria catches her as she falls, cradling her close and leading her over to the bed where Sansa sinks into the mattress blindly, head burrowed in Ellaria's chest. Gasping for breath, cheek pressed against her shoulder, she battles to regain control. She spends too much time crying as it is, yet perhaps anyone who saw would only think it were the babe. The thought brings on another round of hysterical sobs, and it is a long while later when her eyes are swollen and her throat sore that Sansa's crying finally tapers off.  

"He hates me." Sansa rasps, when she's whispered the sorry tale to her. "I've ruined everything, haven't I?" 

"Of course not." Ellaria says, so firm Sansa almost believes her. She blinks up at her, hopeful.

"Sansa, my sweetling, if I could recount all the times Oberyn has stormed off in a wroth state with me, I would still be here a week from now. He is a Prince, and believes himself entitled to everything he desires. He can't abide someone saying  _no._ Especially when he knows he's in the wrong." Ellaria frowns briefly, before touching Sansa's lips silencing her attempt to talk. "You have such a pretty face, even when you cry. Now I'm going to make the maids run you a nice bath with those scented oils you love, and after when you're swaddled like a babe in your new dresses you so enjoyed designing before we left Dorne, we can attend the lovely feast to be held in honour of our arrival. Yes?"

"Yes." Sansa whispers. "Oh Ellaria I'm so-" 

"Don't apologise." She says. "People have done much worse trying to protect the ones they love." 

Sansa thinks back to her Father confessing to treason before Joffrey betrayed him and cut off his head anyway, and nods. 

"It's been a taxing day and I'm sure it shall be a stressful few weeks." Ellaria rubs her back reassuringly. "But it shall get better, I am certain of it."

 _Well,_ Sansa reflects,  _it can hardly get worse._


	26. Chapter 26

He treats her as if she is a doll of the most delicate kind.

His fair Lady, his Princess with sun-freckled skin and shining ruby hair. Sweet smelling and silk wearing and always smiling, always a kind word for someone on her lips as she murmurs her greetings to members of the court. Sometimes he sweeps his hand to invite her to sit by his side, always asking if there is any food she might prefer to eat at meals and then giving her the best parts. He fixates on her health, badgering her with incessant questions and sometimes when his partner is absent he entertains himself by watching her as she plays the harp or laughs with Jynessa Blackmont and her other fellow Dornish ladies. Every so often her eyes will connect with his, and her smile will grow even more radiant. He is always hovering, always calling out for  _her_ opinion above all else's, always making a jape or talking fondly of a shared memory between the two.

It unnerves her. 

"The King is watching you again." Jynessa leans in to whisper, breath tickling her ear.

She already knew before her friend's words, for she could feel her back crawling. Sansa half turn's, eyes drifting over Jynessa's head to where Joffrey sits atop a handsome stallion. He fondles the arrow of a crossbow, stroking the feather fletchings, as he smiles at her. Sansa returns the smile where she stands to one side in the courtyard watching the royal hunt prepare. His betrothed, the Lady Margaery, sits confidently in the saddle on the mount beside him, and when she notices where his attentions lie is quick to trill out some pretty jape that makes him laugh. 

"The Tyrells hate us anyway." Jynessa says cheerily, and Sansa looks at her Dornish companion. Her eyes are gleaming with humour at the pretty brown haired girl, though when she turns to Sansa she frowns. "You look sick. Is it the babe?"

"No, no." Sansa waves away her concern. "I only... I don't want the future Queen to hate me." 

"She won't hate  _you._ Nobody could hate you, you're so charming." Jynessa twines her arm around Sansa's. "She'll blame Joffrey of course, and who could blame her? It's his behaviour that's unproper, leering at you so in the presence of his betrothed... perhaps she'll blame the Martells though, for they've never gotten over Prince Oberyn hurting Lord Willas." She rolls her eyes. "I must say I'm surprised Oberyn hasn't attacked him already for his vulgar ways." 

"My husband knows it is nothing. When the King marries Lady Margaery he'll stop looking at me and we'll go back to Dorne and we'll never see him again." 

"Well, he can _look,_ " Jynessa quips. "Just not touch!"

Sansa doesn't join in with her laughter, for she had never thought pretending to be with child would make Joffrey so attentive towards her. She doesn't understand why he treats her so, and he seems to smile at her confusion when he calls by her bedchambers to take a turn around the Godswood. As if... as if he were courting her anew, as if their betrothal were never broken and Sansa not married and he about to take a Queen. Perhaps he does it to irritate Oberyn, for lately it is not hard at all to portray their marriage as one of coldness and disinterest. He spends his days with his friends and his nights... well who knew where? Ellaria curls up with Sansa warming her bed at each day end, telling her stories and plaiting her hair. Sansa goes daily to Daemon asking him how Oberyn is truly, and does it seem like he were more light-hearted and himself today? Did he talk of her at all? What did he say? The more Oberyn drifts away from her, the more Joffrey stifles her, and Sansa spends as much time as possible sequestered away with Ellaria viciously hating what the capital did to her and the people she loved.

"It would be best if he did not look at all, for everyone." Sansa sighs. "Shall we go find the others?" 

With a curtsey in the King's direction, the pair leave, trailing through the corridors of the Red Keep. Jynessa talks brightly of the upcoming wedding, how she had seen the Queen to be's older brother Garlan and how handsome he was, and why hadn't she said anything? 

"My husband is more handsome." Sansa says distractedly, hurrying past a small pack of Lannister soldiers. They spare them only a cursory glance, yet one makes a crude remark about Dornish ladies under his breath and another leers openly at Jynessa's breasts. 

Jynessa flushes, and Sansa draws her closer. 

"Seven Hells I hate them." She says vehemently after they've disappeared around the corner. "They make me feel as if I'm parading around naked as my name-day, and what gives them the right to look at me so?" She scowls. 

"Don't say anything." Sansa cautions. "We don't want to rile them."  

"I should like to rile them." Jynessa sniffs. "They would not look at me so if they had no eyes to see with." 

Sansa turns to gape at her.  

"Your husband would do it if I asked. Why, any man of Dorne would." She smiles. "They would so like to court my favour." 

Well, Sansa knows what  _that_ is like. Why does Joffrey pay such attention to her, now she is wedded and seemingly bedded with a child on the way? Surely he cannot believe she loves him still, or even  _like_ him. He chopped her Father's head off, and now he seeks her forgiveness by pretending it never happened? He has his poor Tyrell betrothed, he should not want Sansa. Already talk swirls around the Keep of his strange behaviour, and Sansa is surprised Cersei hasn't set her son straight already - unless she knew there was a reason behind his madness? Sansa wets her lips anxiously. No, no she is merely being paranoid.  _Is she?_

"Men will say or do anything," Sansa realises. "To get what they desire from us." 

The only tricky thing was wondering what exactly they desired. Her body? She shudders, and Jynessa squeezes her arm comfortingly. 

What did Oberyn want of her?

He is avoiding her company, seeking time with his squire and most intimate of friends, busying himself with small council duties and whores in the dark of night when Ellaria spurned him in favour of Sansa's embrace. Does he want her to reveal it was a lie to everyone? She  _can't,_ for then Joffrey will surely have her head within seconds of confessing, and who knew what he would do to her husband and Ellaria? And what of the Dornish nobles, who have taken her to their hearts so intensely... she could not bear it if they were to be punished for her lie. The image of Father and Septa Mordane with their heads on spikes replaced by Oberyn and Ellaria and Jynessa and more makes nausea rise in her throat, tears pool in her eyes she blinks away. Does he want her to- to leave? Flee back to Dorne alone and afraid, yet finally free of Joffrey's cloying attention? Does he want her to forget their marriage ever happened? That they did not share conversations and feelings and memories so dear and precious to her, after all the bad? As if she could ever forget him and all he had done for her! She had promised herself she could deal with the inevitable hurt he would give her, yet she misses him so much.

She has lost so many people,  _too_ many people - she cannot lose him too.

* * *

He stands before her, hands planted on portly hips and a stern look about his face; he has not taken her appearance well - or mayhaps, it were the events which had just transpired in the Small Council only moments ago. Sansa had heard the raised voices from the hall - her husband and Mace Tyrell in particular. She had only lingered for Oberyn, yet he had stormed out seeming to not even see her he was in such a wroth state, and as she'd seen blustering Mace Tyrell follow Sansa had sensed an opportunity to give everyone what they wanted. 

"Lord Tyrell," Sansa straightens up from her curtsey. "I hope you are well?" 

Mace Tyrell glares at her through narrowed eyes. Sansa wonders, what was a Dornish Princess to him?  A Northern traitor wed to the hated Red Viper, returned to the capital where his daughter's betrothed makes eyes in her direction... he had many and more reasons to hate her more with every passing day. 

"I am as well as possible, under the circumstances."

"Yes, I imagine your new job must be very time-consuming - but so rewarding too. I was was ever so pleased to hear you were the new Master of Ships, and not at all surprised." Sansa continues with a smile. "Your reputation preceeds you."

"As does yours, _Princess_  Sansa." His eyes are carefully cool, and she knows he blames her and not Joffrey for his straying attention. It is strange, to see the beautiful brown eyes she had once so adored in his son Loras be so cold and unsettling.   

She runs her hands compulsively over her stomach as Grand Maester Pycelle walks past, eyeing them curiously. How long until a child was visible? Surely not yet, if she had only just found out. She makes a note to ask Ellaria later, though truly did it matter? Hopefully by the end of her 'pregnancy' her and the rest of the Dornish will be far away from the Red Keep. 

"It will not be long until the Wedding." Sansa reminds him. "And I and my husband intend to leave shortly after so I can give birth in Sunspear. I understand you have many duties on hand, what with your seat on the Small Council and organising the marriage of your daughter Margaery who is so very beautiful _,_  but I know to arrive back in Sunspear in a voyage organised by the King's own new Father, why it would be the greatest of honours." 

"Well I-" He blusters, pink cheeks immediately puffing up with pride and Sansa's smile widens. _I've_ _certainly given Lord Mace what he desires._ "I would need to talk it over with the King of course." 

"Of course, though it is only an idea." Sansa shrugs. "Perhaps I might stay longer and give birth right here in the Red Keep under the King's nose!" She dares a small laugh, and Mace's expression darkens for a fleeting second.

"No woman wants to give birth away from their home." His chuckle is sour, tone encouraging, and Sansa nods. 

"You're right of course." Sansa agrees. "Though I shall have to convince my husband of it first! He is quite determined to keep his seat on the Small Council, you know."

"Yes." Mace says shortly. "That I do know." 

"But perhaps you and I can convince him," She smiles. 

"Perhaps." Mace agrees, nodding his head in dismissal before walking past her and down the hallway. 

Tentative hope blooms in Sansa's chest. If she could persuade Mace Tyrell to set in a motion a return journey to Sunspear, why it would give everyone what they wanted. Mace Tyrell would get rid of the threat to his daughter and his most hated enemy Oberyn, while revelling in his newfound power amongst the nobles. And best of all, she would get to go home as soon as possible! She resists the urge to hug herself in glee. She is getting ahead of herself, for all she knows Mace Tyrell may be cursing her name and wanting to get rid of her in other more sinister and permanant ways...

She makes her way to the Dornish apartments, wondering what Ellaria's reaction to her inquiry would be. Would she laugh, or perhaps even praise her? Surely she cannot be mad, for though the Dornish hate the Reachmen this act would work to both of their benefits. House Tyrell will be glad to see the back of them, but - what if the Dornish are angry? Surely they cannot be angry at their Prince and Princess for such a small matter. They dislike Kings Landing as much as she herself does, and if they see offence in the Tyrell's being the one to aid their departure, well surely it makes no matter for they are leaving anyhow and the chances are rare they will meet again? 

Ellaria is sat drinking spiced milk and reading when Sansa pads into her room. Legs lounged upon a footstool, she smiles up at Sansa when she enters and places the book to one side. 

"Don't stop on my account." Sansa begs. "What are you reading?"

"A story I've read a hundred times. Now tell me, has he done anything untoward you today?"

Sansa sinks into the space beside her on the plump sofa, stealing a strawberry from the bowl Ellaria offers. She picks at it unhappily, the tiny seeds getting stuck under her fingernails. 

"He only glanced at me while preparing to hunt. Jynessa Blackmont was with me, she will tell you the same." She sighs, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling. "Why does he want me so?"

"I don't know the answer to that." Ellaria says, eyes wet with sympathy. She squeezes her hand. "I wish I did, so I could save you the torment."

"I have dealt with worse behaviour." Sansa says, thinking of when Joffrey dragged her to gaze at her Father's head, how he had her beat before the whole court...

"You are so very brave, to endure all you have." Ellaria's hand is warm in hers, and Sansa shifts to loll her head on her shoulder. Her familiar scent fills Sansa's nose and makes a lump form in her throat and she inhales deeply, closing her eyes as Ellaria begins to comb through her hair. 

"I'm trying to be braver. Smarter. I was so  _stupid_ before-"

"No." Ellaria's breath tickles her cheek, so soft Sansa cannot feel anything except pure love and affection for the Dornish woman. "You were only a child. You still are! My Elia would do well to learn lessons from you."

Sansa laughs quietly. "I try to help her. I... I try to help everyone." She swivels her eyes up to meet Ellaria's. "Oberyn is still avoiding me. He walked straight past me earlier when I was talking to Lord Tyrell. I was hoping he would arrange our way back to Sunspear, but he seems to hate me just as my husband does."

"Oberyn doesn't hate you. He hates being here." Ellaria says. "He hates how this place corrupts people."

Sansa leans further into Ellaria's soothing touch, a comfortable silence descending over the pair. Soon, she would need to go and entertain her fellow Dornish ladies and endure the stares of the court, of Joffrey, of Margaery Tyrell. If only she could stay with Ellaria at peace, if only her friends from the Water Gardens were close by to relax with...  

"I miss Dorne." Sansa whispers. 

"As do I, sweetling." Ellaria sighs. "As do I." 


	27. Chapter 27

Hadn't she asked him as much, she reminds herself, to portray their marriage as distant and uncaring? She had not thought it would be so  _painful._ She thought it would only be an elaborate masque, something to feign while still being themselves in their private quarters, hidden from the world that would look upon them and speculate.

She smiles prettily and wishes him a good day as he rises. He hesitates, before stooping down to press his lips against her forehead. Warmth floods her body, and she sighs softly as Oberyn's hands twine through her hair, pushing a lock behind one ear. He hesitates, as if he is going to say something important, and Sansa gazes up at him waiting for him to apologise, or explain. Instead, the moment passes and he leaves.

Sansa sighs miserably and pushes boiled oats listlessly around her bowl when he's gone, the door shutting behind him with a dull sense of finality. She is giving Joffrey everything he desires, yet she only finds herself suffering more for it. Perhaps it was her due, for she had gained too much happiness lately with her Dornish family and friends. The Gods want to bring her life back to its natural balance, and with each brisk autumn day that passes leading up to the Royal Wedding more and more Sansa notices the charged atmosphere that hangs heavy over the court. They are all wound so tense one flicker of discord can quickly start a conflagration, as they all discovered when news travelled of a fight in Flea Bottom that left two of Lord Gargalen's men scalded and a Tyrell dead. 

It is not hard to feign early pregnancy, for lately her stomach is constantly upset with the belief that any second Lannister men at arms could storm the doors of the Dornish apartments with some accusation against her, or Oberyn, or Ellaria, or _everyone_. 

She sighs again, gazing around the empty chamber stirring around another spoonful of oats without once attempting to eat them. How can she eat, when her stomach is in knots? Her husband is doing what he likes consequences be damned and her once betrothed and current King makes eyes at her and demands her time, and she is so _tired._  

At least at the Water Gardens she was always at peace with the fact she would not, _could_ not, be harmed. Here in this rotting city she cannot even have that small comfort to soothe her stricken soul, and she shoves her bowl away nauseated. She wishes desperately for a letter from her friends, though she had ordered them not to expose themselves to the Lannister's lest they decide to harm them. She misses Tully and Stark too, her faithful dogs who she had kept away from Kings Landing just like their namesakes, and gods she is paranoid! If they were harmed she would know. She  _knows,_ deep in her bones that they run around Sunspear getting tangled amongst Dorea and Loreza's legs, sleeping on their beds carefree and safe; protecting the ones Sansa could not. 

A knock sounds at the door, and Sansa's head turns to it resigned. Another courier or Kingsguard most like, with messages of her to join Joffrey, or perhaps she is to be greeted and graced by his own, unaccompanied presence today. 

"Princess Sansa?" Her maid Ali, frowns. "Shall I get-"

"I am ill today."  _I am ill everyday. Can I have not one day of reprieve?_

She braces herself for the daily onslaught of pretend concern, faked with just the right amount of sweetness to be sickly,  _off._ She has long given up on pondering why Joffrey treats her so, only greatful he does not command the Kingsguard to beat her empty belly. He knows Oberyn would find offence in that, and perhaps that is why he is so kind? Could he possibly be scared of her husband? That would be smart of him though, and Joffrey was not clever at all. The speculation makes Sansa's head spin.   

Ali looks at her anxiously, hands twisting and knotting in the loose fabric of her skirts, and Sansa nods.

"Get the door." 

Sansa stands as Ali opens the door. Perhaps they will see her lack of hunger and decide she is too sickly to attend whatever jaunt he had planned. Her hope shatters when she sees the King himself in the hallway, chest puffed out with pride.  _He must feel so accomplished, walking so far to my chambers himself._  

"Sansa." He says, emerald eyes dancing with mirth.  _For her?_ _What amuses him?_ _His humour is a dark sort._ "I find myself bored, so we'll go for a walk together. Now." He can't quite contain his disdain, even as he holds out a hand to her.

Sansa stares at him, perpetually confused. Joffrey's touches are feather-light, his smile ever-present, his brutal Kingsguard absent behind him,  yet she still feels in constant danger. Surely it delights him, how she bends easily to his will and gamely follows him not daring to protest. He does not know, cannot know, that she does not truly hate her husband, that she is not truly with child.  

"Well?" Joffrey demands, fingers slipping to tighten on her wrist. "What are you waiting for?" 

 _Gallantry suits him not_ , Sansa thinks, _with his worm lips and cutting eyes._

Does he think she welcomes his advances? To bask in the glory of the King's attention, not ever dreaming that his fingers were branded irons she would never escape from?

"Nothing, Your Grace. I am merely out of sorts today. From the babe."

He narrows his eyes at her, long eyelashes trembling on the cusp of rage. 

"Though I feel much better now you're here." She smiles, twining a lock of hair around one finger. "Lead the way, Your Grace."

* * *

The treetops circle the sky above them, and Sansa feels trapped. Surrounded by long limbed trees, whose crooked branches drape over the paths, and where behind she is sure some Kingsguard lurk. Black leaves stick to the hem of her skirts, and the Blackwater Rush roars in her ears as Joffrey guides her aimlessly around the godswood. They talk of nothing in particular, Joffrey's voice lazy, Sansa's quiet. He asks her of Dorne, and the lies spill out of her mouth as if she had never left and observed the Martell's loving honesty. The food was awful, the people worse, she hated everything and everyone there. 

"Were you?" He asks, when she tells him of how thrilled she was to recieve his invitation to the wedding.

"Of course." Sansa smiles, trying to ignore the tightening of her tummy. She never knows what will upset Joffrey, and on different days it is different words. "It is a great honour, to attend the wedding of the century."

"But I've heard so much of others." He laughs, and Sansa thinks of her brother and Mother, of the wedding they called  _Red_ because of all the innocent blood spilled, all the lives lost in vain trying to beat the Lannister's.

"As have I, Your Grace."

"But soon everyone will be talking of my wedding." Joffrey boasts.

"Yes." Sansa nods.

"What was your wedding like?" Joffrey wonders, coming to a stop in the shadow of a fir tree.

Sansa inhales the earthy scent that reminds her so much of the North, and thinks back to her wedding day. Dorne was her home now, and she had never felt more welcome on that day with he presents and pure love from the Martell's as well as all the other Dornish. The carriage ride through Sunspear, the festivities planned by Arianne and executed brilliantly, the tiny elephant and thrilling fireworks.

Oberyn.

Oberyn helping her undress, his delicate hands unbraiding her hair. Oberyn gifting her with his own knife to swear he would do nothing to harm her, and a promise of his own death if he did for he could not live with himself. Oberyn tucking her into bed when she was weary, while he slept cramped in a chair. A sharp pierce of longing aches in her gut and brings tears to her eyes. She wants her husband by her side again, with his smiles and whispers and praise. She  _misses_ him. She  _wants_ him, for the first time in her life. 

"It was... nothing I imagined." 

"Don't cry." 

Sansa brushes her watery eyes fiercely in the face of his disaproval. She thought he would like his tears, laugh at her misery. Had she gotten him all wrong? Had she ruined her relationship with Oberyn for nothing? 

"I apologise Your Grace."

Two tears tremble off her eyelashes as she blinks, yet before she can brush them away Joffrey's own hand reaches up. 

She is still as stone when his fingers skirt her cheek, leaving a furious trail of blotchy pink skin behind. She dare not pull away from his carress, not when Joffrey is leering at her so. His eyes undress her, raking over her most undecently, and she swallows thickly, mouth dry. 

"You can do much better than a Dornish Prince." He croons, foul scented breath swirling across her face turning her stomach. Eyes glittering with cold concentration, fat lips twitching into a smirk. "Why Sansa, you could have a _King._ " 

Before she understands, he is kissing her.  

His hands dig into her hips dragging her closer, his lips moist and heavy on hers, and when his tongue shoves roughly into her mouth she jerks away from his grip and pushes him away scandalised. Chest heaving, she shakes her head wildly.

"I'm a married woman and you're betrothed to Lady Margaery and you cut off my Father's head!" Sansa flares. Frothy red drool drips down Joffrey's chin when her feet stumble back over the rocky ground, stomach knotted with disgust and cheeks hot. "I'll _never_ want to kiss you as long as I live!" 

He's  _bleeding._ She had bitten his lip in the struggle to get free, she realises with mounting horror - and a swift fierce sense of pride. She is a Stark, a Martell, and she does not give kisses freely.

 _How dare he!?_  

 _H_ _e is the King_ , she remembers a second later, _he has the right to everybody, to every set of lips he desires. And he desires mine. Why?_ Should she apologise? If she did, surely he would not care. 

Anger flashes over his face, sharp and savage, and Sansa takes a step back, and another. Her skin is bristling with disgust, lanced hot with fear, and she moves her hair back over her shoulders safe from the grasp of the King. Not that it matters, for he will get her hands on her and end her life now, surely.  _I've hurt the King._ Her Father was executed for less... and would it matter anyway, if she was killed? Her torment would be permanantly over. She's certain she's been mostly dead for a while now anyway, drifting through life sustained on the happy memories from so long ago. If she died she would be with them, her family so dear and departed, and death would be swift. It could not possibly hurt worse then the pain and grief that ached and tore her body for days and moons after, a weeping wound never truly healed. If she died, Oberyn would still have Ellaria, and Ellaria her daughters, and her daughters their sisters... but she would miss  _them._

Heart galloping in her fragile ribs, she watches on suspiciously as the anger fades and unbridled glee creeps upon the wicked edges of his lips. He laughs under his breath, and fear skitters down Sansa's spine. It is as if he didn't care. As if her refusal was of no matter or consequence, a faint amusement in his mind.  _Then why did he kiss me? What game is he playing? He must be, for otherwise he would have beaten me bloody at such a refusal before sending for Ilyn Payne to seperate my head from my body._

Joffrey is still chuckling, smoothing back his messy golden curls as she stares at him, stricken. Surely she is going to die someday, somehow by his hand, and she wishes he would do it now for this ruined kiss than keep her in agony any longer. 

He finally smirks, lips still wet and slick with spit and blood. Violent pink, more worm-like then ever.

"I knew Dornish whores were different. _Wild._ I like it." 

As she watches, he licks the blood away, long fleshy tongue rolling over his glistening red mouth and her stomach roils. "It suits you." 

"I'm not a whore." Sansa says quietly. Calm and careful, that is how she must be to persuade his thoughts to change - though truly, calling her a whore was the least violent outcome, and one she had never dreamt would occur. How could he call her a whore, when she was, as far as he knew, only a faithful wife with child?  _He_ kissed  _her._ She never...

"Not yet." The King agrees. "But when I marry Lady Margaery and bedyou, you will be." 

"You won't want to do that." Sansa frowns. "I'll be fat and ugly with child. I would not please you, and it would shame the both of us." She looks down at her feet, docile with imagined embarassment. "The midwives, they tell me my skin will stretch and scar purple across my belly as it swells." 

When Ellaria had whispered to her facts of pregnancy one night to be better versed in her lie, Sansa had decided she wouldn't mind the scars truly, for they were a small price to pay for a baby. To Joffrey though, who liked his woman flawless, this would surely disgust him, and he nods along as she talks.  

"You're right." He says. "I forgot soon you'll be dead. More reason to bed you sooner!"   

"Yes." Sansa agrees flatly. "Might I leave Your Grace? I wish to see my husband, if we have so little time left together." 

Joffrey thrusts his chin up in a nod, strange smirk dancing on crimson lips.

She flees, trembling fingers knottted in her skirts. 

"Enjoy your kisses now... soon they won't taste so sweet!" His shout follows her as she hurries away, digging deep into her skull and infecting her thoughts. 

Does he mean to harm Oberyn? To harm her? He would not know that to hurt Oberyn would hurt her more than her own body being harmed. Or Ellaria! She hurries through the godswood, gasping for breath and stumbling over roots as she went. Oberyn would most like as not be in the small council meeting still, or training in the yard with Daemon, or with Ellaria - she needs to talk to him now for she cannot bear it any longer! How stupid she had been, to allow her husband to treat her so when he had promised her he would be different. She had thought he would relent, and quickly go back to treating her kindly in private if not public, yet Joffrey had messed everything up  _again._ Joffrey - she needs to tell him, her husband. Her blood boils, lips stinging, and she wishes she had done more then just bite him. _If Lady were alive, she could have ripped his face off for touching me so._

So harried and rushed in her steps, head down and feet fast, she almost bumps straight into the slender brunette and her ladies. She sidesteps at the last second in a flurry of tangled skirts, stomach lurching and cold dread washing over her when she recognises who exactly she narrowly avoided. All the air is blown out of her, the tightness in her chest collapsing as she gasps.

 _Leave me, please,_ Sansa pleads, wondering if the girl can tell her future husband had just kissed the girl in front of her.  _I am no threat, it is all Joffrey, he kissed me, please don't hate me-_

"Princess Sansa." Lady Margaery's eyes are soft, her voice softer. One dainty hand stretches out to gently pat her arm, and it is like a fresh breath of air after Joffrey's poison touches. Sansa stares at her frozen, chest aching with withheld breath. "You look ill at ease. Is there ought I can do to help?" 

Help. She wants to  _help_ her, and Sansa bites back sudden laughter and shakes her head. 

This Tyrell girl, pretty and precious and future Queen wants to  _help_ her, the girl all in court believe to be with child and wanton, entrancing and enticing the King away with visions of what could have been and now never will be. How could Margaery help her? Banish her? Dispose her entirely and leave Oberyn with naught but a skull to look upon? No, surely Margaery would not be cruel. She is smiling at her now, face painted with concern. Cleverely concealing her hate and Sansa shakes her head dumbly, smoothing out her skirts as she curtseys.

"No. No, I apologise Your Grace, I did not intend to disturb you-" 

"Why we were only walking." Margaery's dark brown eyes dance. "Your arrival is quite convenient in truth, for I was intending to send a messanger to your chambers. I see now they will not be needed! Walk with us." She sweeps a hand over the girls at her heels. Tall and slender, and all pretty, and how can Sansa refuse them?

"You look flustered. No wonder, on such a warm day, running around as you were! You must rest with us, and have sweet wine and cakes." She squeezes her arm delicately, comfortingly. A million miles away from how her betrothed had led her an hour previous, and disoriented, Sansa allows herself to be led to the girls quarters. 

"You must be so pleased, to be with child so soon after the wedding. I pray to the Gods daily that I'll be similary lucky with carrying Joffrey's heir." Margaery continues, babbling voice as lulling and constant as a river over rocks. She smells sweetly of flowers - roses, and lavender, and it brings to mind visions of summer. Lush fields of golden wheat and evergreen grass, bright skies and singing larks, and Sansa's head whirls dizzily as she walks woodenly beside her new found friend listening to her talk of her upcoming wedding.

Is she trying to warn Sansa off? Telling her that she will do what Sansa cannot and give him trueborn children, be his _Queen,_ above all others and able to send any who displeased her far away never to return. There is no need for her to act so, for Sansa wants nothing to do with her lover. She can endure Joffrey's kisses, she wants none of it not now or ever. Her lips feel dirty still. 

Was Lady Margaery truly oblivious to Joffrey's true nature? Perhaps he treated her just as he once treated Sansa. She would have to warn him of his two faces, how even when he acts kingly and devoted he is always still the monster lurking well disguised. What good would it be to a monster, if they could not toy with their victims? If they could not _kiss-_ She shudders, staring upon Margaery's fair face imagining the horrors Joffrey could inflict upon it if he were displeased with her - her personality, her appearance, their future children.

"Are you cold?" Margaery rubs her arm. "How strange pregnancy is! You must not overtax yourself Sansa, though I'm sure your husband cares for you greatly and disaproves of you doing anything to put the babe at harm."   

She must know, about everything. Joffrey's visits and Oberyn's hatred, and perhaps about the feigned babe in her belly. Sansa sighs miserably, head beginning to ache. Her whole body aches, and she does not want to have drink and desserts with the future Queen, she only wants to go to sleep and wake up back in Dorne away from this mess. She is past the point of tears and hysteria now, worn down and exhausted, blinded by the sudden loveliness of Margaery Tyrell's world.  

"My husband knows I can take care of myself." Sansa summons up an encouraging smile, and Margery's replying grin is swift and radiant. Her chestnut curls lightly brush against Sansa as she ushers her into the Maidenvault, her living quarters before her wedding day. 

"We all must look out for ourselves here." Margaery says lightly, waving as they pass several older Tyrell relatives. All brown of hair and eye, all wearing similiar looks of suspicion on their faces as Sansa trails beside their beloved. 

"Yes. Though you mustn't worry Your Grace." Sansa seeks to reassure her as she sinks down onto the wooden bench of the trestle table. Thighs clenched together, fingers fisted into her skirts, she keeps her gaze on the girl as her companions sit and surround her. Pressing in at her every side, and Sansa swallows thickly. _These girls are not lions. They are only roses. Prickly, but not deadly._  They could not kill her. Could they?

"You have your brothers to protect you and guard you from all those who would do harm, as well as those who do not mean to debase you."

Margaery nods, watching as a servant stocks the fire in the grate with more wood. The heat that rushes through the room warms Sansa's skin rough with goosebumps, and relaxes her an inch. Chasing away the chill of the Godswood and Joffrey's kiss, and she wets her dry lips trying not to think of it. Not in the presence of his intended, for she would look guilty and they would believe all sorts - that Joffrey had taken her maidenhead long before she left for Dorne, that the babe in her belly was somehow his planted there only days ago. Fear and jealously led to bizarre assumptions, Sansa knew better then anyone.  _But if Joffrey tells a tale of Sansa Stark biting his lip as they kissed, that would be no lie._ Sansa begins to worry anew, fingers fixing in her scalp as if she could untangle her very thoughts and throw them away. What was it Palissa told her, in the Water Gardens? Just breathe. Just keep breathing. 

"I suppose you're right. Garlan is married, but Loras is in the Kingsguard and must do whatever his Grace commands him to." 

Sansa shifts awkwardly under the scrutiny of all the Tyrell girls, glaring unblinkingly at her. Belly gurgling with equal parts nerves and hunger, she focuses on the lovely nature of the girl directly across from her. Around her neck hangs a pretty pink-gold rose on a silver chain, and as she watches, it catches the light of the flames and twinkles like stars. How could Joffrey spurn her?  _Why did he have to kiss me?_

"You're so kind and fair I know when you're married the King will make himself the fool to please you."

"Indeed." Margaery's eyebrows lower. "Though what if he is already playing the fool?" 

"A jape. A game he will quickly tire of, when he realises he is losing."

_I never asked to play his game. I don't want to, don't you see? I am married to another._

Margaery hums under her breath, staring at Sansa thoughtfully before her lips stretch into a wide smile. "I find myself lacking friends not family, and would love to hear tales of Dorne."

"I would be happy to tell them." Sansa says shyly, leaning across in earnest. "I only wish to please you. I l love you as fiercely as all others do." 

Margaery nods satisfied, before pushing a loaded plate towards her. Sansa's mouth waters.

"Then you must call me Margaery, Sansa. Lemon cake?" 

* * *

"What a day you've had, and it only being noon!" Ellaria, bless her, tries to make her laugh. Perhaps it is to calm herself, for the murderous scowl has not left her face since Sansa had first whispered of what she did to the King. 

"No Sansa," She had drawn her into her arms. "What the King did to  _you._ "

Sansa had tried to argue that she must have encouraged him, that she didn't push him away quickly enough, but Ellaria had only shaken her head and firmly, insistently told her it was nobody's fault but Joffrey's. Everything was his fault - Lady's death, her Father's death, Robb and Mother's death, Oberyn's distance from her, the strife between her and Margaery that Sansa is thankful seems to be disappearing... all of her seems to stem back to _him._ What was she, without King Joffrey?

 _A good person. A girl who can laugh and be free of worry and fear. A Stark of Winterfell, a Martell of Dorne, a Princess two times over._    

"I'll make sure I'm by your side always. I don't care what His Grace says anymore, you need someone-"

"He will only say the Kingsguard are adequate protectors." Sansa smiles at her wearily, patting her hand. "It's alright."  

"No it's not." Ellaria snaps, pacing around her. Sansa has never seen her so vexed, curls mussed from where her hand drags through them, lips twisted in a protected snarl. The sight warms her, and makes her feel strangely sad. She cannot remember the last time an older woman thought so much of her, only - only  _Mother._

"Ellaria you can't disobey the King." 

She smiles. "I am not a lady of two great houses." 

As if that mattered! Joffrey would kill anyone regardless of their status as high or lowborn. And to think that Ellaria devalued herself so much as to believe that she would be of no importance to the King, well she was sorely wrong. They killed every soul in her Father's household aside from Sansa herself, and she only because she was at the time contracted to marry him. 

"You think that makes you less important?" Sansa says fiercely. "You're important to me! And Oberyn, and all your daughters and family so don't you dare do anything to  _protect_ me, I'll - I command you not to as your Princess."

Sansa does not know who's more surprised at her outburst, herself or Ellaria. Herself, she decides, after Ellaria's look of shock melts into approval and she sits down next to Sansa. Just as she'd wanted, safe from harm. Whatever this game of Joffrey's was, she could not risk Ellaria being hurt for her involvement. He could storm into their chambers any minute now and demand their heads for her ruining his kiss, and she would shield her as much as possible. 

"Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude." 

"You were not being rude. You were being wise, and sensible." Ellaria says, gaze brooding. "It's true, I was not thinking clearly for a minute."

Sansa has not been able to think clearly for days. A side effect of the Red Keep, she is sure. A common occurance in the presence of Lannisters. Must she suffer Joffrey's kisses again tomorrow? The day after that, will he do something worse? It chills her to the bone, to think of what he might be planning for her. Leaving after the Wedding is not enough, for what about the time in between where she still remains? At any time he could demand her, and there would be little anyone could do. Would do. Oberyn surely... but where is he? _He's not here, when he promised. He **promised.**_  

"This cannot go on." Sansa shakes her head. "I cannot live like this any longer Ellaria." 

She scrubs at her mouth, still able to  _feel_ his lips on hers, his tongue probing her insides. She has scoured her mouth with salt water, yet she still feels dirty. Her back still crawls with disgust, and she flexs her fingers on her lap staring up at Ellaria plainly, without shame. 

There is only so much one person can take. 

"Not much longer." Ellaria reminds her, but it is not _enough_ any more. 

"Where are you going?" She asks as Sansa abruptly stands.

"To find Oberyn." Sansa wipes her mouth a final time and heads to the door. "It's past time we talked properly."


	28. Chapter 28

She waits not for the door to be opened for her, rather she strides in intent on talking no matter what her husband desired. She had done everything he has commanded apart from the lie to save herself from harm, and when her options were open had strove only to please him, realising later that to please him was to please herself in the long run for he was happiest when she was content. Now he thinks he can hide and forget the world in a prostitute's arms, imagining the troubles he invented were of a different source? While Sansa is being kissed by Kings and scrutinised by Queens to be, huddled miserably in Ellaria's arms each night waiting for relief that never comes?

Oberyn's head lifts in surprise beside the cyvasse table, and she clenches and unclenches her hands, nails digging into her pretty palms. Let them wound, let her bleed bitterly in front of him and show how hurt she is. 

"Daemon please leave us." Sansa dare not take her gaze off her husband, who smiles at her commanding tone. 

"Listen to your Princess, Daemon." 

Oberyn's squire nudges one final piece into place across the board before standing. With a cautious backwards look at Sansa, Daemon departs, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

Barely has the door closed before she is surging towards him. Another time perhaps she would have wrapped her arms about his waist, stuffed her face into the contours of his chest and smiled at his familiar warmth and gentleness. Not this time. She stands a pace away from him shaking while he slowly rises to his feet opposite her. 

"You are hurting me."

Honest, brutally so, yet hadn't he been the one to show her that the truth was as good as a lie when wielded well? All those times he had kept his word to her and treated her well, married her not to bring fear to her life but only goodwill and happiness, all those times he had  assured her she was right to feel the way she did and should feel no shame for it despite what others believed, all those times he had comforted her and allowed her to grieve for he knew it himself well. He had always been truthful to her, and kind, and even now his words from the godswood echo and swill around her brain -  _I will keep up with your ruse, I will be courteous as able to the lions..._

At the expense of her? To punish her, for daring to forge her own path of safety to survive? For expecting him to agree to her own scheme but not his own? Perhaps it is hypocritical of her, to defend her own plans so fiercely yet deny him his, but hers do not include death. Not  _true_ death, only now with Joffrey's lips seared on hers, she wonders for the first time if maybe she was wrong. 

"I do not know if you know, but surely you must feel guilt at the way you stride away whenever I try to talk?" The words spill from her mouth without hesitation, ploughing forward not giving her husband time to talk and dissuade her, calm her. "I know you have kept your word, but you have kept it in the most cruel way and I would have you talk to me fondly again. All those times you swore you would protect me, that I would be safe in this crimson city yet now you disregard the both of us, Ellaria and I, to covort with prostitiutes and courtiers you detest. Do we disturb you so, with our talk of peace that you can abide it no longer even in the privacy of our own chambers where no ruse must be kept? Well  _I_ cannot abide it any longer." 

She takes a deep breath, dizzy from all the words that poured out of her. Important words though, words rich with meaning, ringing with sincerity, and hope that they can get through this stronger together than apart.

"Continue." He smiles wryly when she still quivers, taunt on the the edge of ire, and so she does. 

"You swore before we came here no matter what you would never leave my side.  _No matter what._ That you would be there day and night yet my days are fearful and my nights empty aside from the healing hands of Ellaria who is more comfort now than ever. Where are you Oberyn? My husband, who swore he would treat me different to all others... well you treat me different now and I hate it. Perhaps you never meant the pretty words you said to me, but I have to believe you did else I would drown in the despair of having all happiness I have recently known be a mummers act. I thought you were different. I thought you were not like the liars I have known before. I know you dislike my own plans, that you are content to carry on with your own quest for vengenance in the most bloodthirsty of ways despite my disapproval, and I know perhaps it is selfish to want you to love me still but I desire it."

To his credit Oberyn does not interrupt her, nor anger at her speech, merely blows out a long breath and pushes back his hair from his forehead. 

There is more to be said still, but already the words ring in the air around them, and any more she fears would get lost as she seeks to make him understand. She stands, waiting, the anger that had ensconced her fading as the seconds pass. 

She couldn't be angry at him completely, for it was only the Lannister's request that had brought about their recent strife. If not, they would still be in Sunspear, happy and far away from the danger and people who would wish them dead.

"Sansa..." Oberyn whispers, and is he as discontent as herself? Or does he only hate her boldness, of her forcing him to confront his behaviour? She waits, yet it seems he is speechless. It does not matter, she still has plenty to say herself.  

"Do you know what happened today, only mere hours ago while you cared not what I did? Joffrey kissed me. The King kissed me without my consent and my lips still feel rotten. And do you know what I did, when he forced himself upon me? I _bit_ him and now fear what he will do in retaliation. I didn't mean to, I just wanted him to stop." She frowns. "He is not my husband."

She reaches out to him, slips her small hand into his and squeezes. His eyelashes flutter as he turns his gaze to meets hers. Dark eyes. Guilty eyes. 

" _You_ are my husband. No other." She sighs. "And I would have us be friends again. I miss you terribly." 

As she had spoke, a dozen or more feelings had flitted across his face - anger and surprise, hate, pride and guilt, and - could it be love? 

Now he rubs a hand across his lined face, tired eyes meeting her own. He looks old Sansa thinks suddenly; King's Landing has aged him.

"I have missed you too." He says quietly. 

Sansa sniffs. "I would not have thought it from your actions." 

"I was merely taking your suggestion. Perhaps I could have gone a better way about it true, but then it would be no lie if we both were miserable." 

Sansa narrows her eyes. "So you blame me?" 

He is the one who spoke of being courteous and avoided her like the rest of court as much as possible. Sansa would happily spend her nights with him in the privacy of their rooms, yet even with no facade to play he refused to visit, to talk or enjoy her company, not even Ellaria's. Pretending did not make something so, it was only a lie, so why did he keep to the truth as ever and twist it so they both had heavy hearts and a dislike of the other? Surely he can see they wither apart?   

"No, of course not. I blame myself entirely, I went about it all the wrong way." 

"I didn't want you to hate me." Sansa says quietly,  I didn't want you to be so cold and unloving. I didn't want your actions and words to be _true._ "  

"They aren't true, not for us." He tells her. "Not ever. You must know I love you, Sansa. You are my  _wife,_ I do not take vows lightly."

His hand moves as if to touch her, but thinks better of it. 

"You are my little wife who I love so, with your scarlet hair and sea-blue eyes and your ability to always see the best in everyone regardless of their misdeeds. I can not stand you to be hurt."

"Then why do it?" She says quietly. "Why do all those hurtful things?" 

"I'm only harsh for I care, though I know that is little excuse." 

Sansa blinks, confused. Of all the things to come from his lips she did not expect that. Of course she knew he cared for her to some amount, but to be purposefully mean and make her suffer for it? Surely he did not mean it in such a way. Surely he knew treating her so horribly only made her believe he did not care at all? _He knows of the Kingsguard beating me for I confessed under the heart tree when we first arrived, and he left me to endure hurt of a different kind from him all the same. His rebuffs, his avoidance, his coldness... but he did it for I? Because he cares? If he cared he would not have done all he did, surely?_

"Come, sit. I shall explain everything." He draws her down onto a chair by the fire, and drags up another to sit opposite.

Pouring himself a generous goblet of wine, he takes a sip and sets it aside. All the while Sansa sits in nervous anticipation, wondering what he could possibly say. He cannot be mad at her, not now, for he is treating her kindly for the first time in days. Already she feels ashamed at her outburst, and what sort of a wife was she, to treat him so? A Prince of Dorne, and didn't she know nobility, _men_  could treat her how they saw fit?  _No,_ she thinks fiercely,  _Oberyn has always encouraged me to speak my mind. I shan't apologise for telling him how I truly feel. Can I not make my own happiness now after suffering for so long?_

"I have treated you awful, it's true." He sighs. "it is only because if something goes wrong here I could not see you dead for associating with me when I..."

_When he what? Exacts his revenge on the Lannister's?_

"I do not fear their attack, if they dare do it. I can fight well." He continues. "It is not I who I worry for, should they decide to be violent." 

He leans across to her then, as she stares at him in surprise. Perhaps she should have realised Oberyn's behaviour stemmed from protecting her, for hadn't he done it from the first? She feels foolish and horrid all at once, and looks away guiltily when he takes her hand. So gentle, and she had  _missed_ this, and all because she was stupid and believed him to be-

"Sansa." 

She slowly turns her head back to look at him, gaze upon his fair face creased with concern, eyes boring into hers and hand reassuringly familiar in her own. How could she ever have hated him, or think he hated her? He might be called the Red Viper but he has always been harmless to her, has never struck her where it would wound. Indeed, he has been her most fiercest protector. Even now, pushing her away for her own  _protection,_ while she had only chatised him...  _But I have tried to protect him too. We have both been blind to the other in our attempt to keep our partner safe._

"Do you think that would be easier?" Sansa whispers, fingers moving restlessly around his. "I disliking you, in the end? I would still mourn what we had before..."

"I know killing is not in your nature." Oberyn says. "You rely on words and wit, for court is the woman's battlefield."

"Courtsey is a ladies armour." Sansa agrees quietly, thinking of her stern teacher who had perished along with the rest of her Father's loyal household. "My Septa once told me so." 

"Yet courtsey and even pregnancy failed to keep my sister and her children alive." Oberyn chokes out. "You are so young Sansa, I-"

She should have known he would think of her as Elia, and how stupid she was not to think of it earlier as she pretended to be with child! Oberyn's eyes are shining, and a lump of her own forms in her throat at the thought of all those dear to them the pair had lost. Elia and her children, Mother and Father and Robb, Bran and Rickon and Arya... It is understandable that Oberyn wishes not to add to the list further, at least not  _her_ name, but...

She has an impulse to bridge the gap between them, to rise from her chair and fall into his lap, wrap her arms tight around him and stop the tears that shine in his eyes. Instead she only squeezes his hand tight, leaning across and meeting his pain-filled stare.  

"I am not your sister." She says softly. "I am not Rhaenys, or Aegon." A small smile of encouragement blooms on her lips. "I am Sansa Stark, Sansa _Martell_ , and I can take care of myself." 

Had she not demonstrated so far? Her heart still beat within her chest, her mind still whirred with thoughts and feelings, she was not dead and dust like the rest of her family, spirited away on the winds to all corners of Westeros. If she had not been able to take care of herself, she would never have survived her Father's death, would never have met and married Oberyn.  

"Elia was Queen to be, yet she was slaughtered all the same for no reason of her own. Murdered, and innocent of everything, yet it made no matter to those bloodthirsty lions."

 _Yes!_ Sansa wants to say.  _And that is why you must stop this foolish notion of revenge and concentrate on your family that still remains!_

"I still fear for you, if ought were ever to happen and I was somehow indisposed. I think the Lannister's know how to hurt me most." He darkens.

By hurting loved people, Sansa knows. Why kill the aggressor and gift him a merciful quick death, when one could see and suffer through the savage deaths of their beloved ones instead? For that will punish them more, that will strike fear into their hearts and rot their brains with guilt and kill them long before they cease breathing. 

"You think I do not know that?" Sansa says sharply. Of course she knows, she who has lost more than her Prince before her. "That I do not fear it? I fear it too, everyday. That the Lannister's will take all I hold dear for no reason. The Gods know I'm trying to control it, for I have Dorne now. I have Arianne, and Ellaria, I have the Sand Snakes and my friends from the Water Gardnes... I have  _you,_ if you would have me." 

"Of course I would have you. I'll always have you, until death parts us. You are my wife, and bound to me whatever happens." Oberyn sighs heavily.  

"Then we must tread carefully, you see? And talk pretty and act calmly and show no anger or cause for suspicion." Sansa says. "The Lannister's must believe our marriage to be loveless and horrid, for then they cannot harm us with the punishment of the other, but it need not be so." Sansa pleads. "Not when it is just you and I, alone." 

“I’m trying to keep you safe, while you protect me.” Oberyn smiles soberly, and Sansa’s heart jumps at it. She had missed his smile. "Though I seem to be doing a piss poor job at it. You told me the King kissed you?" 

"It wasn't your fault." Sansa says quickly, eager to pacify any anger that might rise. They had only just reconciled and come to a place of understanding, and she has no desire to reignite the flames of fury. "It wasn't mine either, I know that now. The blame lies only at King Joffrey's feet, and he will surely be too scared to try again when he knows you are aware. The Red Viper is a most fearsome man." 

"I shall be." He growls. "If he dare touch you once more. I swore this would not happen!" 

His anger ignited, this time Sansa is the one who observes silently, as he throws his wine filled goblet at the wall. Sansa watches the blood red liquid drip down the ruined tapestry and roll across the fresh rushes as Oberyn lashes out in anger and guilt.

And then just as suddenly as his anger came, he is sinking down onto his knees in front of her repentant. Knees buried into the Myrish carpet at her feet, Sansa watches wide eyed as he gazes at her, grabs her hands urgently.

"Forgive me, Sansa."

Are those tears shimmering in his eyes? His voice is raspy, rough with guilt. Sansa hadn't meant to make him  _cry._

"I went back on the vow I gave you in Sunspear, I did everything to you I swore I would never... I never meant to hurt you so. I don't think, I never think-"

"I know." Sansa chokes on a watery laugh, his tears compelling her own to appear. To have him kneel before her as if he were a beggar, a mere peasant and she the highest Queen in the world... "But I was wrong too. I shouldn't have expected you to go along with my plans when I had not revealed them, and then feel slighted when you did as I asked." 

"I could have been nicer to you, when we were alone."

"And I could have been nicer to you, when talking of your revenge of the Lannister's. It is only because I worry."

"I worry too. And I'm sorry, so sorry."

He presses a kiss to her knuckles, and Sansa sighs softly. Gods she had missed him so! His familiar orange and spices scent, his dark eyes crinkled with laughter, his warm skin against hers...  

"As am I."

"I have treated you most terribly, and shall never do so again."

Sansa nods, looking down at their clasped hands. 

"It was not so bad, I only missed your presence. It felt as if... as if you had died, and Ellaria and I were quite alone in our grief."

"Well I have no intention of dying anytime soon." Oberyn reassures her. "And anything you need I will gladly give it to you. If you want to spurn me then do it, I deserve it. I deserve to suffer."

"You know who the people who deserve to suffer are." Sansa whispers. "And you are not one of them. You don't need to do anything to change my affection for you, for you have earned it forever regardless, but-" and she smiles, moving to place her hand on his cheek fondly. "-you can perhaps make a start in our reconciliation by finding me some lemon cakes and a secret place in the Red Keep far away from Joffrey."


	29. Chapter 29

"Whatever happens, I am here." Oberyn whispers to her.

He is practically stuck to her side, his hips clanging against her own as they walk, though he has been as such since their talk the day before. Sansa spent the most lovely evening in bed with Ellaria and him, talking and laughing and when sleep crept over her, sleeping nestled into his side. She had awoken with the rich red autumn sun shining into her bedchamber and her husband beside her, and for a short while the world had felt  _right_ again. Then she truly awoke, and a messanger summoning her to King Joffrey had knocked on the door of the Dornish holdings.

"He cannot do anything too bad, can he?" Sansa asks. "I am with child, after all."

She rubs her belly, and thinks how difficult it is to remind herself sometimes that she is  _not_ with child. Her and Oberyn's babe does not grow deep within her, big and strong and clever. Clever enough, with his Father's fierceness and his Mother's mind, to bring hell to the Lannister's and cast down the golden lions who bled his family dry and squabbled over the meatiest victims. She sighs softly. One day, perhaps. She could name him Eddard, or Robb, or perhaps a Dornish name. Mors maybe, for he had married the invader Nymeria who had come from lands unknown, just as Sansa had travelled from the North and a place Oberyn in all his travels had never invaded. Mors Martell. Mors Stark. Eddard Mors? Or Mors Eddard? Would it be presumptious, to have two names? No other had one, but she is sure their babe would be special. How could it now be, with their parents? Of course, the babe might be a girl. All of Oberyn's offspring are female, perhaps he is only capable of creating one sex. She could be her little Merry with fiery curls and viper eyes after Princess Meria who refused to be conquered by the enemy, and they could take back Wi-

"Sansa."

Sansa looks up, and sees they are approaching the door of the throne room already.  

"I am well." She assures him, squeezing his arm. "I am merely... thinking."

"Worrying?"

"No." She smiles, pleased she can say the truth for once. "Wondering. Thinking of the future." 

They are ushered in and announced by a herald, and once again Sansa stands before the King on the Iron Throne. Sometimes she feels as if she is stuck forever on that day she begged mercy for her Father - and failed. The thought of her Father brings a rush of emotion to her, and surely Oberyn cannot meet the same end. If Oberyn were to die, her last protector and husband, she did not know what she would do. Return to Dorne alone? They would not wish her to stay, a Northern widow with no family. Though surely Arianne and Ellaria would allow her to stay. She has nowhere else except Dorne, now. Kings Landing is certainly no home to her, and she wonders with a distant horror if Joffrey can read her thoughts when he starts his speech.

"As you know you are with child," He begins, flicking a blonde curl back from his face as he stares at her. "and a child born of treason cannot be trusted." 

_I cannot be trusted, after spurning your advances. Is that what you mean to say?_

"However, we are willing to overlook such a _stain,_ and make your babe a ward of the court while you return to Dorne."

After the kissing incident, of course he would seek to punish her. Sansa had thought foolishly he would mean to punish  _her,_ but of course Joffrey delights in punishing others to cause her pain. And what better than a babe? Light-headed with relief, she sags against Oberyn. 

"It is a great honour. They shall grow up with Prince Tommen as their royal companion, and will be a leal and loved subject of me, the King." Joffrey beams as she looks at him dizzily, trying to fight the smile that wants to outmatch his. He thinks he is commanding her poor child to a life of misery but he does not know, he- She fights back a snicker. She wants to laugh outright in his face, but clearly Sansa never gets what she desires!    

"But I shall see them sometimes?" She manages to say, fingers tightening where she pulls at Oberyn's shirt in emotion.

"I might allow you one or two _nightly_ visits." He drawls. "In the day they will be busy learning how to be loyal and clever unlike its Mother." 

He eyes her up and down again, brazen before Oberyn, but Sansa knows he will not touch her again. Not when he had the promise of a helpless infant and an even more helpless Sansa away in Dorne. 

"Do you not want us to stay?" She says. 

"Prince Oberyn cannot go of course, but I thought you wished to leave here and go back to Dorne for the baby." Joffrey's cat-like eyes glint with humour at his own cleverness, at how he has given Sansa everything she wanted and nothing, again. 

Her, gone. Oberyn left behind,  _alone._ Cold sweeps down her spine, prickling at the injustice of it, needling her frozen fingers that clasp onto Oberyn still. She can't let go now, can she? Not when he shall have to stay behind while she departs to Sunspear, to Doran and Arianne and all his daughters...

"You are so wise to think of such a plan." Sansa compliments, wearily realising that of course Joffrey would want to split them up, of  _course,_ when she had told him she was a married woman, and his reach extended as far as Dorne just as she had suspected, and she can't let this happen.

She simply can't, not after everything she and Oberyn has been through. Not after they've just grown back together. Somehow, some way, she will be selfish and make Oberyn return to Dorne with her safe and sound away from the lions den. Doesn't she deserve that, after everything she has endured?

"And when shall I leave for Dorne, Your Grace?"

"I believe Lord Tyrell said you wanted to leave after my Wedding. I can understand why. You'll be so upset to see me with Margaery, I'll be quite glad to be rid of your snivelling face. You're so ugly when you cry, you know." 

"I know." 

"Is this all the news you have for us?" Oberyn finally speaks, hand covering Sansa's own. A small comfort, but one Joffrey cannot miss, and Sansa lets go off his shirt to squeeze his hand so hard her knuckles whiten. "Nothing more from other family members?"

"Why would they wish to talk to you?" Joffrey says, scowling. " _I'm_ the King, not them."

"Of course." Oberyn's smile is chilling, though Joff himself seems immune to its ill effects. "My mistake." 

"Go." Joffrey slides off the seat of the throne and begins the long descent down the steps, crown catching the light and bathing him in golden light that dazzles Sansa and leaves her unable to look away. Why did the Gods favour him so? "I find myself desiring my lovely wife to be. " 

With a superior glance at Sansa, as if she truly  _cared_ Joffrey was meeting with the Lady Margaery, he departs, sauntering past them. His niceness is only a facade to cause her more suffering, but she will take Joffrey's orders and be glad of it for she will be far away back in Sunspear...  

"I'll make him see." Sansa whispers, gazing up at him still clinging to his hand. "That you must come back to me. We'll leave together, or..."

 _Or not at all?_  

"Prince Doran, your brother, he can order you back." She says confidently. "The King-"

"It seems we will both be getting what we want." Oberyn interrupts her earnest plans, watching the empty space where Joffrey had left. "You, returning to Dorne, and I staying here."

Does he truly believe this is what she wanted? The two of them seperated, when they had only just reunited? What wife could she be, with her husband away? Not just at the other end of the Keep, but hundreds of leagues away... she will be sick all the time with worry. A most undesirable companion to anyone, praying constantly to the Gods for his safe return. To be in Dorne amongst his kin and companions, where he is so well loved, and not have him there by her side... well it would not be Dorne at all. Not as she knew it, because to her-

" _You're_ Dorne." She whispers the words, feeling foolish.

Her cheeks flare with heat, a flutter in her tummy as she watches his eyes widen. She thinks of the numerous nights by his side when he had dragged her out to shows and meals and dances, all in the name of making her feel better and the grief bearable. How he had gifted her dogs and knives and love under the hot burning sun, how he had married her and kissed her lips so quick she felt nothing, how he had fallen asleep on a chair instead of sharing their marriage bed that first night when others would have taken her no matter her own feelings. All the laughter and tears and conversations in the middle of the night about families who died at the hands of monsters, the friendships and families and love she had gained all from the kindness of this man in front of her who was old enough to be her Father. Without him, Dorne would be a beautiful desert with no water, no  _life,_ and perhaps it sounds silly and dramatic but to Sansa it is the truth. 

How does she begin to put it all into words though? They hang there on the edge of her breathless lips, filling the air between them with their pressure. She could not do them justice.

"You are Dorne to me, Oberyn." She swallows, saltwater on her eyelashes she carefully blinks away. She will not cry; Oberyn will not leave. She will not leave him. "You know I will go if the King commands it, but I shall be sick forever knowing you stay in this place alone and Sunspear... Sunspear will not be the same."

He looks like he wants to kiss her.

He does.

Gently placing his hands on her hips, he drags her forward a step, two, to place his lips against her forehead. The warmth of him spreads throughout her whole body, and she closes her eyes surrendering to his touch, the scent of him bringing an ache in the back of her throat. 

"Perhaps this is the price we pay, to stay alive. To stay _safe._ "

She does not say _but you won't be safe at all, will you?_ She merely makes a sad noise of feigned agreement and wraps her arms around his waist as if she had the strength to uproot him to Dorne herself. 

* * *

"I just do not know what to do." Sansa sighs, and Ellaria's arm tightens around hers as they wander through the godswood. "I thought I was wise to the games they all play, yet it seems at every turn I'm caught off-guard anyhow. How can I not see?" Bitter loathing laces her words. "How can I be so blind, Ellaria?" 

"You're wiser then most, else you would not be alive, and you're not blind." Ellaria shakes her head. "It is not your fault King Joffrey enjoys to torment you, Sansa. You do know that, don't you?" 

"I know." Sansa lies. "But he has Lady Margaery now, and if I am to be taken to Dorne as they say, well, I shall be well away from him."

"If it was the King who commanded it." Ellaria murmurs, eyes shifting around them. Only her lady companions Jynessa Blackmont and Myria Jordayne are with them, a few paces behind talking loudly and lively, oblivious to their whispers. 

"Of course it was the King." Sansa stares at her bemused. "Who else?" 

"A new Queen will not look kindly upon those who threaten her status."

Sansa considers Ellaria's theory carefully, examining her solemn faced companion as she rakes a hand through her soot curls blowing wildly in the breeze. It lifts leaves up to dance around their feet, flickering like flames of amber and red and gold. They crunch underfoot as they duck under skeletal tree branches, and surely Margaery would not do a thing? Sansa frowns. After their conversation, she thought her and Margaery had reached an... understanding of sorts. 

"I'm a married woman, you all know this." Sansa says. "And I and Lady Margaery are firm friends now after our misunderstanding. She knows I would never..."

_Does she?_

Maybe her reaching out for friendship is just for show, just a cruel jape to make her betrayal that more painful. She is marrying Joffrey, perhaps she is just like him.  _No._ Surely not. Though had she not resented Sansa in the beginning, for distracting Joffrey away from his bride to be? 

"She knows _you_ would not." Jynessa suddenly pipes up, flicking a leaf at Myria who squeals. "But you're not the one she is marrying."   

"I am already happily married despite the King's involvement." Sansa points out, cheeks warming at the thought of her husband who she loved so dearly and soon would be ripped away from. "And I would not wish to marry any other instead, if I were ever offered before our Wedding."  

"And thank the Gods for that!" Jynessa says. "You know I would not have forgiven Prince Oberyn if he had let such a Princess as you leave us." She swings her arms around Sansa's neck for a brief hug from behind, curls tickling Sansa's nose.

"Bur poor Margaery, having to marry such a passionate man."

A boy in truth, filled with rages and urges he did not attempt to stop, and Sansa shudders at the thought of their wedding night. How could Margaery be so calm, knowing what awaited her? A lamb sent as prey to the belly of the beast by her family no less, and what did it matter to be a Queen if it were an unhappy marriage? 

"Don't waste time worrying over a Tyrell. Is your husband not more passionate?" Jynessa teases as Sansa plucks a leaf off her shoulder Myria had thrown back. 

"Yes." Sansa says solemnly, twirling the leaf around her worrisome hands. "Unfortunately. Do you not think passion only causes ruin?"

She remembers when she had been so ruled by the intense feelings shivering in her heart that she thought Joffrey would never cause her harm. How stupid of her; her Father's head on a pike soon put an end to that foolish notion. Surely passion only led to impulsive acts and words that could not easily be erased? Better to be warm-hearted and wary. From the wreckage of her family, Sansa remains, altered and old skin sloughed off, but still  _her._ Stronger, wiser, and now able to rule over the passion that beat deep in her chest, a wild thing. Was that bad? Was it innately selfish, to protect ones own skin? Oberyn, so determined to give back to the Lannisters what they took from him and his brother... shouldn't Sansa want to do the same? Instead she sits and worries and cautions others against the surge of their heart lest it be broken to pieces too numerous and fragile to possibly fix.  

She tears the leaf in half, watching it fall to the floor to be stepped on by Myria. Her Ladies are quiet, sharing looks of uncertainty. Sansa doesn't mind their silence, for she was constantly doubting. Distrusting the truth, and lies, and everything. It is Ellaria who comes to her rescue. 

"Not when it causes goodness." Ellaria says, voice steady and eyes wise. "Sometimes passion can pick up the ruins of another emotion and build something better in its place."  

"For good." She echoes. 

When had passion ever led to that? It takes her a long moment to think of such. When Joffrey had ridded the realm of the so-called traitor Eddard Stark? 

No.

 _When my friends at the Water Gardens embraced me with soaked hugs and silly games and never looked for anything other then myself - no favours or titles or money._ _W_ _hen I gave my coin to the infirm in Sunspear's streets, and hired poor peasants to live in the Sandship and earn more for their families._ _When Arianne had been determined to make a wedding I would love and find comfort with despite barely knowing me. When Oberyn looked at a girl the Lannister's had mistreated and promised to treat me better._ _When Father had admitted to being a traitor to save my suffering._

Ellaria squeezes her arm, and Sansa lovingly lays her head on her shoulder. She asks if she wishes to pray when they pass the heart tree, casting an uneasy look at the red face half-hidden behind smokeberry vines. Sansa shakes her head, saying the three of them would be bored in the silence. They don't practise the Old Gods in Dorne, but Ellaria is sweet all the same to offer. She can return later, alone, and send prayers and goodwill to her Father and others she has lost. Father, Mother, Robb, Lady and Bran and Rickon and Arya... now Oberyn too, soon. 

They make their way back to the Red Keep, enjoying the fresh air. It whips against Sansa's cheeks, lifting her hair and bringing a warm rosy flush to their faces. Giggles swirl away in the breeze as Jynessa and Myria distract her with their adventures in Kings Landing, and Sansa is glad someone at least is having fun. She only wishes Oberyn's small council duties didn't detract from their time together so! She must be in his company as much as she is able, for soon they will be seperated if Sansa cannot convince their King to give up his wicked games. Perhaps she could use the passion he has for her to convince him to change his mind. She doubts it, but what else can she do but try? She can't give up and just leave Oberyn behind, like she has with all her other loved ones. Not here, in this place of destruction, with death - so much _death -_ haunting the halls of the Keep they walk. 

* * *

The hour is late, the candlelights twinkling like gold-spun stars before they extingush in small splutters of smoke. The crackle of the fire warms Sansa's skin, the sweet wine she's consumed even more so, and she sits doodling in the book Palissa had gifted her at ease for once.

She's felt awfully guilty of late for not using such a heartfelt gift, but dare not write anything too revealing of her time; she has an irrational suspicion that people might seize hold of it and read the contents. Instead she finds herself sketching dresses and portraits – of Ellaria, Oberyn, sometimes Jynessa. She even attempted a self portrait one night. Nobody could say Sansa was an exceptional drawer, but as she never intends them to be on display she must only battle her own frustration at her failings. 

“I cannot get your nose right.” She scowls down at the page, before looking up at Oberyn again. Feet curled into Ellaria's side, she leans on the arm of the chair watching her husband with narrowed eyes and ink stained fingers. He's discarded of his formal court attire, his shirt only thin amber silk and breeches slung low on his hip as his legs lounge over the side of his chair. He's deep in the wine Sansa knows, yet she cannot blame him. After the day they've had, and then the council meeting she could not bring herself to ask of when he'd stormed in wroth, she would be inclined to drink and forget too. Indeed, she's drank enough herself to be delightfully careless. She squints at the sketch in front of her, shaking her head. 

“You must know you look little like my attempt, but I don’t think any artist could capture your essence.”

How could they? Oberyn can scarsely contain his own vitality, his whims and emotions and passion. Her conversation from earlier rolls over her thoughts as he turns to smile at her, a little wickedly, a lot curious. No man could make the copied image on parchment alive so, at least not one with the same poor skills as Sansa. 

"I want to see all the same." He encourages, and her cheeks redden as his fingers reach across threatening to dance a path and pluck the book clenched tight in her hands. She takes another gulp of wine - for courage, only, though it tastes so good and she feels so good why not have another? She smacks her lips together, fixing him with a sceptical look. 

"Do you _truly_?"

She's better at sewing by far, and dancing and singing, even poetry, but the normal reluctance that would plague her so severely is dulled somewhat by the wine. She gives in within a second of his affirming nod, turning the book around with a dramatic flourish and sigh, pulling a foolish face to express her disgust no good lady should towards their husband. Sansa is a little too drunk to care though, and Oberyn would never care sober or not. 

"It's good." Ellaria praises, stroking her arm even as Oberyn shrugs. "Isn't it, Oberyn?"  

“Ah, I believe my nose has always been lopsided.”

Sansa giggles at his wink, his smile encouraging her own jape as she looks over her pitiful art, taking note of the discrepancies. “And your eyes so big?”

His eyes widen comically, eyebrows waggling, and she laughs loudly and long at his foolery. Ellaria's lips quirk with amusement at his antics, shaking her head as she takes a sip of wine.

"I think we love a child." She turns to Sansa, her wry words laced with affection. Sansa places her book to one side, squirming closer to her dearest. To call her friend would do her a diservice, to call her anything else not adequate. Ellaria is... everything Oberyn is not, yet more. It makes sense to Sansa, somewhere in her muddled mind, and she turns up her nose, laughter affecting her haughty tone. 

"I think even a child would not behave so." 

The shock of a cushion hitting them both makes Sansa bluster, jaw dropping. 

"They most definitely would not do that!" 

"If you believe that, you have not been within his company long enough." Oberyn's eyes gleam, and how could people find such a fellow dangerous? To Sansa he is as harmless as a- as a- well she doesn't know, but she laughs merrily along with Ellaria and himself all the same as she finishes her goblet.  

Time passes, though how long or short she cannot say, only that the melting candles were replaced at one point, the fire topped up by Daemon who had only smirked when Sansa cried out to join them, and her goblet had been filled and refilled quite a few times. She is fond, of this wine she has tasted, of the company she keeps, of the laughter that fills her with liquid gold. 

Breathless, she shifts to loll her head on Ellaria's lap, delightfully warm and at peace with the world. _Amazing_ , she thinks, _when earlier I had been worrying!_  How could she worry now with Ellaria and Oberyn's delightful company? Ellaria's fingers stroke her hair, and Sansa shivers when the silver of her rings brush against one ear. The liquid warmth in her body makes her feel uncaring, prickles her eyes, turns her limbs languid and heavy, useless. 

"Do you plan to fall asleep where you lie?" She asks as Sansa yawns.  

"Yes." Sansa smiles selfishly, eyes closed as she nuzzles herself in deeper to the warmth of Ellaria's body, the softness of the chair draped with blankets and pillows big enough for the two of them to recline in, the crackle and heat of the flames licking the side of her cheek closest to the fire. How could she move from such a place? 

"A lovely place," She mumbles. "A beautiful place, Ellaria did you know you are very beautiful? No matter what those Tyrell's said, because Jynessa had told me they'd said something..." Her voice tails off. "It's not true. It's not." Her hand lazily pats Ellaria's. "You're perfect as you are."  

"Thank you sweetling." Her quiet laughter shakes Sansa, and she whines under her breath, fingers curling into her thigh. She rustles, hand batting out as a hand skirts her hip.

"You want me to stay, don't you?" She protests, eyes reluctantly opening. "Don't you?"

She squints up at Oberyn, who is hovering beside her. She hadn't heard him move, and her hand moves from pushing him away to clinging to him. She grabs at the of loose fabric of his shirt, frowning. He smiles at her, eyes crinkling at the corners like she adores but-

"I think you'll roll off in the night and hurt yourself if I don't move you off poor Ellaria."

"No." Sansa says stubbornly, pushing the words past her tongue that feels too big for her mouth. "I mean- here. I can't leave _here_." Doesn't he understand? She was telling him, wasn't she? Gods, she thought he had been to the Citadel! Was he not smart?

She huffs, discontented. "I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave you."

"Then it looks like I'll have to make you, doesn't it?"   

She shrieks when Oberyn swings her up into his arms, tossing her over her shoulder as if she were nothing. Laughter spills from her lips despite herself at the sudden thrill, though it fades quickly and she clings to him even tighter, burying her head in the crook of his neck. Oberyn is different to Ellaria's motherly softness, but she is not complaining for he carries her all the way to her bedchamber without complaint, kicking her door open with a show of athletic prowess that Sansa _likes._ Isn't her husband so good and strong? Not like Joffrey, no, not like him at all, and when he places her down on the bed, Sansa falling into the velvet blanket, she grabs his hand to prevent him leaving. 

"You are needy tonight." He says softly, squeezing her hand.  

She gazes up at him, stood in the darkness of her bedchamber painted black and blue from the shadows after carrying her to bed, and she feels her heart wavering, wobbling, preparing to shatter when she lets him go. It's _painful,_ and pointless, after all her and Oberyn had been through and Joffrey wants to seperate them as if they truly hated each other, and maybe it was her fault all from the start, all of it. If only she had gone alone with Oberyn's plans and not made up her own stupid lie perhaps they would not be counting down the days of her depature. She doesn't say it of course, a combination of not being able to find the right words and the more tempting at every second sleep that promised to drag her to oblivion, where none of this mattered. 

"We might not have much time left together."  

Smoky moonlight illuminates and softens the sharp edges of him as he sighs, the weight of his body on her bed dipping the mattress. Sansa wobbles forward, crawling through the trapping fabric of her blanket to wrap her arms tight around him. Cheek shoved into his hip, and the words are right on the edge of her drunken lips if she just let them loose. He sighs again, large hands running over her head and mussed hair to stroke her back, swirling in circles. Pressing into her skin, his lips grazing her forehead, and Sansa is drowsy from his touch, that travels throughout all her brittle bones and eases the ache of their impending seperation.

"We won't be apart, you'll see." He promises. "I'll find a way to change this situation we've found ourselves in, I swear it." 

"Without death?" Sansa says, hands clumsily going up to hide the whisper. A loud whisper, hot on her husband's ear. "I am so sick of death." 

"Without death." He whispers back, breath ghosting across her lips as she turns to look at him. Cold nose brushing his, breath caught in her throat, and she nods. Good, it is good, his passion can do good just as Ellaria says. 

"You're so good." Sansa tell him, nodding. "So good to me and Ellaria and Obara and Nymeria and Tyene and-" She yawns. " _Everyone._ " 

"I try to be." He chuckles. 

"You are." Sansa says, crushing her head into his shoulder demanding without words for her hair to be stroked. "And I'm so glad you're my husband." 

"Well, I'm glad you're my wife." 

"Stroke my hair please." She mumbles, and he complies, his laughter shivering on Sansa's skin. His fingers massage into her head, and he smells of - well  _Oberyn,_ and she sniffs, ignoring the crick in her neck from leaning over so far into him. His chest is soft, familiar, rising gently up and down with his constant and solid breathes, and the pressure on her head from his hands is lulling and lovely. She never wants him to go, she wants him to stay with her forever and he promised her he would. He's so good to her, so good.   

She sighs, eyelashes fluttering and voice so breathless she can hardly hear it. "You are so good."  

"If you keep complimenting me so, my head will swell."

"Like my drawing."

Their laughter has the disadvantage of ending her hair-stroking, for their bodies are shaking and limbs are jabbing soft skin and she falls back, sprawling out on her bed with teary eyes and a feather light soul. It has the advantage of Oberyn following suit though, heaving a sigh as his head hits the sheets beside her. Sansa turns to him, smiling. His legs hang off the side of his bed but she can't deny he suits the space. Was he not known for falling into many beds? She laughs to herself, laughs until her head is dizzy and she can't catch breath, and Oberyn is watching her with beautiful eyes and a smile so tender it melts Sansa's heart, ribs collapsing despite her best efforts to protect herself. So easy, it would be so easy to say the words, but he knows. How can he not? Everyone knows. 

She rolls onto her hip, cold feet inching their way to his. He grimaces when they meet his skin, curl into the warm space between his legs as if they were meant to be there. Were they not? Were they not husband and wife, annointed by the Gods? How did she get so lucky? Everything in her life might be in ruins, but not Oberyn. Not yet. Not ever - they'll find a way to stay together, avoid Joffrey and Margaery's wrath. Together. Had they not only just made up after realising how miserable and useless they were apart?   

"Sleep with me." She whispers, admiring the crease between his eyebrows. She wants to smooth it away, trace with her fingertips every inch of him and uncover everything there was to know of her husband. But not tonight. "I'm your wife, sleep with me." 

Moonlight shines in his eyes as he nods, throwing his arm out. She moves under it eagerly, pressing her face into his ribs. Feet warming up where they tangle with his, chest rising and falling beneath her cheek, heartbeat thudding in her ears  _livelivelive,_ it takes her only minutes to fall asleep. 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really did not intend for it to be a month between chapters! I'm really busy with final year university stuff right now. I'd had 90% of it wrote for ages, but writers block and stress do not go well! This chapter is... not my best sorry.

Why must things so beautiful hurt her so? She spends her whole life believing them to be lovely and kind, golden and forever bright with joy, yet just like all other things she discovers they hurt her.  _Why?_ It is wicked, and it burns, and it _hurts._  

She moans deep in the back of her dry throat, scrunching her eyes shut, flinging one arm dramatically over her face as Oberyn opens the shutters with a rattle that shakes her skull. 

"Must we get up?" She whines, pulling the nearest pillow over her head. The bed is already cold where Oberyn laid only minutes earlier, despite her very best wriggling to keep the coziness wapped tight around her. "Can we not just stay here all day?" 

She knows even as she says the words that she must don her dresses and perform for the court, but she wishes not to. She wants to stay in bed, with her husband, if not in the way all other wives laid with their partners. Though really, what was typical of her and Oberyn's relationship? 

"I am indisposed." She continues with a groan as Oberyn ignores her, and _opens another shutter_. "Why I am quite ill. Please close the shutters again. My head aches so terribly Oberyn."

He laughs, and her head rings, and she groans louder. "That is what the drink does to you." 

"Why did you make me drink so!" She accuses, shifting herself half up off the bed to find his gaze for he sounds grossly unrepentant and amused at her suffering. Indeed, when she blearily blinks a few times in his direction, his face is creased with laughter - from what she can see anyhow, for he stands right in the path of the sun that is _blinding_ her.  

"I?" He laughs. "This was all your own doing."

"Well you should have stopped me." She laughs despite herself, regretting it sorely when her head throbs further. "You are older, you know better."

He looks fine, Sansa can't help but note. Striding around with his face tilted towards the sun, eating an apple slice plucked from the plate the servants had sent to break their fast, smiling ear to ear. It rankles her, his ease. He pats her shoulder, eyes bright.

"One day you'll be glad you have a husband that denies you nothing."

"I already _am_ glad." Puppies and knives, books and dresses and outings to mummers shows and more... did any other wife get treated so? Surely not, for no other was wed to a Prince of Dorne, to the Red Viper himself. 

"I forget sometimes that you have only a child's tolerance for such things." Oberyn admits. 

"I was just happy. With you, and Ellaria." She sighs. "I wish it could always be like that."

"You, a raging drunk?"  

"Was I raging?" She gasps horrified. "I can only remember laughing!" 

"A jape. You were the perfect Lady, as always." He assures her, lips twitching around the beginnings of a beard he had no way to shave this morning. She hopes he grows it out further, for she's never seen him with a beard. He'd look even more handsome, Sansa is sure. "If only a little giddy." 

"Oh." Sansa says. _Giddy._ She tilts her head, lips pushed out in thought. "Did you prefer me drunk?"

"Well I would prefer you remember our time together." He says dryly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'll leave you to get dressed."

"Hmm. Perhaps I'll stay in bed _all day_." She falls back onto plump pillows, wanting nothing more than to sleep the day away. Perhaps she'll invite Ellaria to lay with her, for she feels guilty stealing away her partner last night. 

"Whatever you like, sweetling."  

He checks himself over in the looking glass, straightening his collar before heading to the door. Sansa watches him wistfully, wordlessly imploring him to come back. He needn't go to the Small Council today, he would be little missed for everyone in Kings Landing hates him so...Rationally she knows they both have duties they must attend, but it is nice to pretend for a while.   

"Won't you keep me company?" 

One hand on the doorframe, her husband turns to her. Regret is clear in his eyes, the set of his mouth a grimace, and clearly he is as reluctant as her to leave her. 

"I wish I could. Another day, I swear it." 

She smiles as he softly closes the door behind him; he has not broken his promises thus far.

* * *

The letter had been sent a mere hour after Sansa had awoken, the courier who thrust it into her hand dressed in Tyrell spring green. An invitation to sup with the Lady Margaery, to enjoy cake and wine and a good gossip with Margaery's other dearest companions. 

"You must come with me." Sansa looks around her small circle, letter in her lap. Ellaria, faithful as ever sat to her left side, with Jynessa Blackmont to the other and Myria beside her. The highborn Dornish girls who came to Kings Landing with their parents number only two, but Jynessa and Myria are both heiresses.

"Must we?" Jynessa wrinkles her nose. "I do not wish to be needled with barbs all day."

"I've met them myself and they all seemed lovely." Sansa frowns. "You must behave Jynessa, you represent Dorne and Margaery is to be Queen."

"We'll be gracious." Myria promises, elbowing Jynessa. "I'm curious to meet these girls, I've never met a Reachwoman." 

"For good reason." Jynessa sniffs, yet sets aside her stitching all the same to accompany her.

The courier leads the four through the Red Keep, past the Royal Sept and Maidenvault. Sansa is curious then, for she assumed their meeting would take place within Margaery's household, and follows the courier to the gardens that seperated the Keep from the Godswood. It is a pretty picture, with the long oak trestel table set up decorated with gleaming platters of cake and fruit and generous amounts of sweet wine. Autumn flowers, yellow honey and amber in colour sit on the smooth expanses of wood not covered by Tyrell embroidered cloth of green and gold.

The sharp air, tinged with the persistant warmth of a soon hibernating sun wafts lovingly against Sansa's skin as she walks to meet the group, leaves falling from the trees behind them. Girls of all ages sit chattering, plaiting hair and one reading poetry from a small book, and Margaery Tyrell, dressed in a gown of russet velvet that brings out the brown of her eyes perfectly, smiles in the middle of her ladies. She rises to meet them, as do half of the table's occupants, and they meet in the middle of the land as if to parley rather than take pleasure in each others company. 

"Lady Margaery." Sansa sweeps into a curtsey, but Margery smiles as she gestures her up.

"You needn't curtsey every time we meet." She kisses her cheek, a waft of delicate rose perfume drifting up Sansa's nose. "We are friends now, are we not?"

"We are," Sansa smiles nervously, cheeks flushing. "If you wish it." 

Margaery's eyes flick over Sansa's companions with interest. Ellaria, curled protectively around Sansa's arm, a hesitant Myria and Jynessa half a step behind. 

"I am unsure whether you have been properly introduced." Sansa says hastily. "This is Lady Jynessa Blackmont and the Lady Meria Jordayne." 

"Both heiresses." Margaery notes, smile widening. 

"And this is the Lady Ellaria Sand-"

" _Lady?_ " Two girls stumble aside, wincing and rubbing their ankles as an older woman shuffles into view from behind them. Gnarled hands clutching a stick with an expression more then willing to use it as a weapon, the woman must only be Margaery's grandmother. Shrewd eyes, narrowed and pinpointed on Ellaria she raises the stick leaving no doubt of who she speaks of.  

"So this is the serpants whore, is it?" 

Several loud gasps follow the words and fury simmers in Sansa's stomach. Her fingers dig into Ellaria's arm. Her ladies draw themselves up protectively, chests puffed out and eyes enraged.  

"Grandmother!" Margaery's eyes are wide, but Ellaria is smiling. No hint of embarrassment lies on her face, the angle of her shoulders suggesting amusement even, and she flicks her curls back over one shoulder with her free hand entirely unconcerned.

"Yes, I am. And quite well-known, it seems." She laughs, a quick sharp burst of unrestrained amusement at the old woman insulting her.

Ellaria is far more than a  _whore,_ she has been Oberyn's love for more than ten years and mother to four of his children, a woman who has taken Sansa under her wing when she could have hated her and caused her nothing but trouble. They must know, these Tyrell's, how wrong they are about her and everything, the fake Lannister love and their hatred of all Dornish. 

"Ellaria is no whore!" Sansa blurts the words, though her spine is stiff and her trembling hand squeezes Ellaria's forearm tight.

"Spare your lies for a person who believes them, child." Olenna tells her, tutting. "Perhaps that foolish boy King who shames my Margaery cavorting about as he does with you?" Her eyes drag up and down Sansa's frame and "Though I can't see the interest myself. You're beautiful enough, but redheads do have an unpleasant tendancy to freckle like a bad case of pox at the slightest sign of sun. I suppose you were prettier up North." She concludes. "And the Lannister has a romantic notion that now you are the North itself you might be servicable."  

Sansa stares at her, taken aback. 

"I... I..."

Did her freckles truly look like the pox? Her hand automatically skirts her cheek anxiously. Surely Oberyn or Ellaria would tell her so? Her freckles were fading anyhow from the cool autumn air of Kings Landing, but did that mean they were worse in Dorne!? Has she been walking around blind to the snickers of her peers this whole time? 

"Did Ilyn Payne rip your tongue out when he chopped your Father's head off girl? I expected more from a Dornishman's wife." 

"Sansa is too kind to insult others." Ellaria leaps to her immediate defence. 

"And here the animal speaks again. I never knew I posessed a snake-charmers skills, though in hindsight it does not surprise me dealing with such creatures that run around here. Such harmless things, with little poison to suck out after." 

"I believe Lord Willas would beg to differ. How _is_ his leg?" Jynessa's smile is dangerous, and she had promised Sansa she would be good! She should have known the Tyrell's would inflame her highstrung spirit like no other, and bring out the worst in her. What had Palissa told her, before she left? That the Reach girls were 'spiky'. If the Reach girls were spiky, what were the Dornish?  

"Perhaps you do not know Lady Olenna, but snakes venom without the antidote often ends with an arm or leg sawn off or rendered useless." Meria says quietly, head down gazing at her feet as she recites facts meant to calm the situation. Sansa feels a rush of love for her and her knowledge. "And they can swallow their victims whole with their jaw which is very flexible-" 

"Well, is that not her job as a Prince's paramour?" Janna Tyrell laughs. Meria blushes scarlet, shooting a helpless look at Sansa.  _She tried, at least._

Jynessa cackles loudly with disbelief. "And they say we Dornish are crude!" 

"Alluding to such acts does not mean we partake."

"You are denying yourself great pleasure then."  

"Such talk from an unmarried heiress!" Meredyth Crane sniffs. "I suppose your precious Princess is the same?"

"Don't bring Arianne into this! And even if she is-"

Meria's smile is awkward. "Arianne is a loving Princess who is well loved in return and-"

"She will always be better then yours - though we have Myrcella in Dorne too, so who knows what she is learning under Arianne's tutelage?"

"Oh you'd love that wouldn't you?"

"Indeed I would! Why-" 

"I do not wish to argue over such things. Ellaria is a dear friend and has been a Mother to me in the absence of my own. If I might have your permission to leave, Lady Margaery," Speaking over the arguing of their ladies, Sansa turns to the young Queen, whose big doe eyes blink at her sadly in a pretty heart-shaped face. "I wish not to hear my ladies and Princess insulted." 

"My grandmother does not know what she talks of and my l-"

"I know well what I talk of Margaery, I've not lost my mind yet. Though small wonder, with-"

" _I_ would like you to stay, even if my Grandmother and ladies would not." Margaery outstretches a hand, eyes hopeful, and Sansa softens. "Please stay. I enjoy your company ever so much, and I'm sure your lady companions are as delightful as mine own once we truly get to know each other. I am sure we have more similarities then seen at first sight." 

Sansa hesitates. The small courage that had risen in her belly and requested to leave at Ellaria's insult has died, and if she refused Margaery, who knew how much she would take offence? And if Ellaria is right and it is Margaery who wanted her to leave Kings Landing as soon as possible... but why would she be friendly now, if she knew she was to leave? To break Sansa's heart further? The spread looks wonderful, the girls fun, and she wants so desperately to be friends, true friends. 

"Sansa." Margaery prompts. "Please."

She cautiously reaches out to take Sansa's hand. Soft, squeezing hers daintily. Sansa relents.

"We will stay for a little while."

Who can refuse the future Queen?

"I shall sit and watch a while and enjoy myself as you try pitifully to avoid offending one another." Lady Olenna declares. "What on earth was that Prince thinking bringing his mistress too? No, don't answer me Janna I know just what deviant thoughts ran through his mind. Wife and lover!" She barks a laugh, shaking her head. 

A while turns into hours, sipping wine and eating cake and talking of everything and nothing, skirting around matters of great importance and fixating on gossip that was menial and mostly untrue. Sansa feels quite fat and lazy and useless, lounging eating lemon cakes and milk - she had refused the wine on account of her head still aching in direct sunlight. She brushes crumbs off her midriff and thanks Elinor Tyrell for plaiting her hair, even though she's sure no girl had as much skill as Zhoe. She wonders how her handmaidens are back in Dorne, and her friends from the Water Gardens, and Arianne and the Sand Snakes... She sighs, and one of Margaery's cousins Alla takes her sadness for interest and nods enthusiastically.

"I know! I could scarce believe it myself, but I saw with my own eyes all the jewels."  

Another cousin Megga, smiles. "It fits her so beautifully, I'm sure there's never been a more beautiful Queen." 

"I hear Queen Rhaella was a sight to see." Jynessa counters. "Though in Dorne, we think Princesses are prettier." 

Sansa swings herself around to meet her gaze. Could they not manage a few more hours of civility without subtle digs at the other? Her friend smiles innocently, but Sansa is only reminded more of the harsh history between the Dornish and Reachmen, only growing in emphasis as the minutes pass in strained silence between Margaery and Sansa's women. At the very least, Sansa and Margaery alone are endeavoring to enjoy themselves amongst the frostiness.

"Well Dorne have always been  _different._ " 

Jynessa and Meria bristle at Megga's smirk, and Sansa has to talk quickly to stop a new blood feud errupting across the table.

"You're right, Dorne is ever so different from the rest of Westeros! Did you know, Lady Margaery, for my Wedding there was an elephant? It arrived by ship from Volantis, and the captain let me feed it." She laughs in rememberance at the trunk tickling her hand. "I even rode it a while around the courtyard." 

"How sweet." Margaery smiles, eyes dancing. "Though I think to see a Queen riding a beast would be a funny sight." 

"If so, we shall all be laughing soon." Jynessa agrees. 

"We Dornish are spirited, you most surely know." Meria says by way of apology, discreetly pinching Jynessa's arm. "We do love celebrating, and what better than a wedding?" 

Margaery frowns. "Does Princess Arianne not have suitors?" 

"I believe not currently, no." 

"How sad." Elinor sighs mournfully. "To be so old, yet unwed."

Laughter rings out around them.

Ellaria smiles. "I hardly think she is old."

"Well _you_ would think that." Janna Tyrell says curtly. The older woman is Mace Tyrell's sister, Margaery's aunt and fiercest protector, and has looked upon Ellaria with disapproval throughout the whole visit.

"Are we not around the same age, my Lady?" Ellaria's voice is quiet, yet she does not avert her eyes and glares directly at the woman who insults her, a smirk toying on her lips. Lady Janna flushes, and Sansa frowns.    

"Being unwed does not mean being unloved." Sansa says, thinking of Ellaria who loves Oberyn dearly, and he her, and though Arianne seems enamored with Ser Arys Sansa knows Daemon has handed his heart to her completely. 

"Of course not." Ellaria says softly and Sansa smiles, squeezing her hand under the table. 

Olenna scoffs. "Well  _you-_ "

"Shall we call it a day?" Margaery says hastily. "You have been here so long, and I know my own legs are quite stiff from all this sitting. I thank you for coming though, it has been... interesting."

Meria and Jynessa's eyes flicker to Sansa and she nods. They stand at once, all four of them in a swirl of skirts. 

"You can retire back to our chambers if you wish, or see what occupies you around the Red Keep." Sansa tells them. "I think I shall go see my husband, the council will have finished by now surely."

"I shall walk you." Margaery says brightly, waving off her cousins who leap from their chairs. "No, I am perfectly capable of walking by myself, and besides I will have Sansa for company, will I not?" 

"Do you want us to accompany you Sansa?" Ellaria asks, and Sansa shakes her head.

 "I will enjoy some alone time with Lady Margaery." She speaks the truth, for throughout the entire meeting the pair had been defusing potential fights with quick words and hardly any true conversation.

Ellaria hesitates.

"Truly Ellaria." Sansa assures her. "I shall catch up with you soon, I promise. Perhaps you shall see Oberyn before I do." 

She finally relents, and Sansa watches Ellaria, Jynessa and Meria walk back to the Red Keep, hair and dresses rippling in the breeze. The two girls have their heads bent together most likely whispering, but Ellaria looks back halfway to see Sansa is sure. She smiles and nods her head, and Ellaria disappears into the castle.

"Come then Sansa." Margaery holds out her hand, dimples on full display. "Perhaps I might see this fearsome husband of yours."

Sansa takes her hand and they leave the Tyrell's behind, strolling into the greenery. 

"I might love them like sisters, but sometimes family can be a little stifling. You are a blessing, Sansa." She grins. "Someone so alike... yet different too. It is nice to talk uninterrupted."

She drags her to a stop only a few paces around the corner, hidden from watchful eyes. Their place so concealed by the vines and plants of the garden, Margaery's voice so small, Sansa must lean in close to hear her whispers. 

"I want you to tell me." She says urgently. "What is the bedding like, Sansa?" 

For the first time, Sansa sees a flicker in Margaery's eyes. Fear? Cunning?  _Is she trying to catch me out in a lie?_  Surely she will know she has not bedded her husband from her words... if she truly asks for good intentions Sansa cannot reassure her. A wave of pity crashes over her as the brown-eyed girl sinks her teeth into her lower lip. She is pale, so pale Sansa can count tiny freckles on the porcelain of her cheeks, one and two and three.

"Did you not marry Lord Renly?" Sansa says unsurely. 

"We never laid together." Margaery's cheeks redden slightly. "So will you tell me?"

"It is... indescrible." Sansa wets her lips. "We ladies should not speak of things, it is unseemly." Her eyes flicker to the floor, pinned on the slightly loose thread on her velvet slippers. 

"Try," Margaery urges, squeezing her hand with frozen fingers until Sansa must lift her miserable gaze to her. "You must try to explain. Please." 

She could tell her frind the truth, that Oberyn was kind and gentle and honourable, but had she not already confessed to King and court that Oberyn defiled her most brutally near every night? But the Wedding was moons ago, and as she blossomed with child Oberyn and hers relationship had, to the eyes of the court, become tolerable and perhaps even fanciful. But Margaery did not know that, how could she possibly know? She hates to lie about acts so despicable, but she can scarcely tell the truth.  

"Oberyn was very insistant."

There. That was the truth, was it not? Insistant she remain a maiden, and sleep alone in the bridal bed whilst he slept upon a chair like a faithful servant and not a grand Prince. 

"Insistant." Margaery repeats.

"Yes. Joffrey will be the same, most like." _Or worse._ "Most men like to take what they want with no regard for others involved." 

"Does it hurt?" 

"Most highborn ladies lose their maidenhood while out riding-"

"Will he hurt me Sansa?" Margaery's voice is steel strong, eyes sharp as she gazes at Sansa. Controlled fire simmering in her lovely eyes, and Sansa cannot believe she did not see Lady Margaery's strength previously. It is as if she is going to war, Sansa marvels, and is King Joffrey not the worst enemy? The bed shall be their battlefield, and Sansa shudders, guilty tears swimming in her vision.

"Yes." She whispers the words, biting her tongue to no avail. She can taste the copper in her mouth, the sudden cold shiver that wracks her running the entire length of her body as she clutches tighter to Margaery, as if holding the poor girl could stop her terrible fate. "Oh Margaery he will treat you terrible, I'm so sorry."  

"How will he treat me terrible? Tell me Sansa, dearest, for I must know if I am to marry a beast how to tame him."   

"You cannot." Sansa half-moans. "You can only give him what he wants and hope it appeases him, Margaery please you cannot tell him I've spoken so-!" She lets out a hysterical gasp that makes Margaery look at her with concern, a roaring in her ears as if the lion of House Lannister itself were perched on her shoulder, his claws digging into her chest-

"Sansa you're _shaking,_ here sit down, tis not good for the babe nor you-" 

_Breathe in._

"I shan't tell him." Margaery's whisper hot on her neck as she pats her hair consolingly. "Do you want some iced water?"

Sansa shakes her head, wanting to spit the words out before they poisoned her with grief. "Margaery, Joffrey is a - a  _monster._ He cut off my Father's head and made me stare at it, he killed my Septa and all my Father's household, every single soul, even my best friend Jeyne, and then he killed my brother and Mother at my Uncle's wedding." 

_And he kissed me, your betrothed, he kissed me in the Godswood and I bit him until he bled._

Margaery's hand tightens around Sansa's, a lingering comforting squeeze. "I'm sorry that happened to you Sansa." Margaery says lowly, and her tone  _seems_ sincere... "You did not deserve it." 

"I?" Sansa blinks, taken aback. "It is not  _I..._ it is my  _family_ who did not deserve it. Father and Mother and Robb... even Bran and Rickon and Arya..." Her eyes fill with tears she hastily blinks away. 

"Well when I'm in the Sept, I shall call upon the Seven to relieve you of your anguish." 

Sansa stares at this girl Queen-to-be, whose big brown eyes gaze dolefully into hers. She cannot truly mean the things she says... she will kneel in the Sept and pray for her, for  _Sansa?_ She who is contracted to marry Joffrey in a handful of days, she who has naught to look forward to but the trials of Joffrey, she who will be bed by a monster until she births an heir and a spare and plenty more... she would pray for the liar and fool stood beside of her!

"But what of _your_ anguish Margaery?" Sansa says stricken, eyes wide. "No, you cannot -  _must_ not pray for I, when you are the one who must marry a most wicked man. _I_ shall pray for _you_ , nightly." 

What else can she pray for now, anyhow? All her family are dead, her home burnt and lost to the Bolton bastard according to the whispers of court, and Oberyn... it did no good to pray for him, she is sure.  

"We shall each pray for the other then." Her friend says lightly. "But I am sure I can gentle his temper in time. He is not yet a man, and I do not intend to emulate the Queen Dowager." She sniffs delicately. "Why, he is already half in love with me, I believe." 

Perhaps that is worse, for him to love her. Did he not take his punishment out most on the people that loved him? The starving and neglected smallfolk who only wanted to be loyal, Sansa herself when he cut off her Father's head, and now Margaery, poor innocent Margaery... 

 _But is she innocent?_ She wonders.  _Perhaps she is so confident Joffrey loves her because they are two souls the same, and she looks forward to their union. Perhaps she only asks these questions in order to trip me in a Lannister lie, perhaps she cares for me not one whit and I am just an amusing dolt to her, a stupid foolish Princess who had kissed her soon husband..._

"Sansa?"

"I truly must go find my husband now." She gently removes her hand from Margaery's, standing up. "I feel quite ill." 

"Let me help you, you may swoon and hit your head or worse." Margaery's eyes land on her stomach and stay there. Sansa shifts awkwardly, one hand rising to fall limply against her belly. 

Sansa permits her assistance, for she dare not refuse the Tyrell girl's order, though she speaks little as they walk into the Red Keep. Margaery is so very... _confusing,_ and Sansa cannot say for certain if she is kindly for true or just for amusement. Can she trust her to keep her word about her confession? What if Joffrey discovers she has told his betrothed he is a monster? Her stomach rolls queasily, head throbbing and limbs aching, and she wants to curl up in bed with Oberyn or Ellaria and sleep. And sleep. Sleep the whole wedding away, and the worry over Margaery, and Oberyn, and everything!

Her husband is in the training yard, when they find him. Whirling around, sparring with Daemon, his squire barely able to lift his shield before the spear strikes hard.

"I shall leave you with your husband." Margaery says, with a queer edge to her voice. Was it jealously or relief that he was Sansa's husband while she was engaged to Joffrey? 

"I have had a lovely time." Sansa squeezes her hands. "Though perhaps next time I shall leave my ladies behind."

Margaery smiles. "I don't think my grandmother has ever had so much fun, insulting so many at once. She is old, she carries grieveances hard..." 

"Perhaps next time we could meet without her too?" Sansa suggests, for the tiny Tyrell did scare her a little. And say she was spotty. Sansa frowns, and Margaery laughs. 

"I think that would be an excellent idea!" She kisses Sansa's cheek, spritely again in the presence of others. "And now I shall go to find my own husband to be." 

Sansa watches carefully as she goes, but the girl seems to be in high spirits. Her hushed conversation with Sansa seems not to have ailed her at all, and Sansa can't help but wonder if she was telling the truth. 

Brushing dust aside, she spreads her skirts delicately around her as she perches on a bench. Wash cloths and canteens of water sit beside her, daggers and swords and a shield propped against one leg - obviously Oberyn's, for Daemon's is getting hit repeatedly by Oberyn's spear. Her husband spins away from Daemon's attack, as dainty as a dancer and Sansa can't not be impressed watching him. She had heard of Oberyn's reputation to be sure, and she knew he must be an excellent fighter for how else would one earn such a fierce moniker? Only exceptional warriors were given a title for their prowess, yet she had never seen him truly fight until now - and she suspects with Daemon as his opponant he was not using his full strength and skill. 

Daemon whispers something, and Oberyn turns, swerving a sneak attack by his squire as he spies her. 

"Sansa!" He says with surprise.  

Sweat drips down his face, cheeks flushed and breath laboured, but his eyes shine and he smiles widely at her sudden appearance. 

Sansa smiles shyly as he lowers his spear and approaches. "I know now why they call you the Red Viper." 

He grins, and she passes him a cloth to wipe his brow. He dabs at his forehead roughly with one hand, the other reaching down to take hers. He helps her to her feet, as effortlessly as if she were a rag doll, and having just glimpsed the strength her husband posessed it was easy to see why. 

"What have you been doing?"

"Dining with the Tyrell's." Sansa says. "They were quite rude, though Ellaria and Jynessa certainly gave as much as they got."

"And you?" Oberyn asks, passing the cloth to Daemon and staring at her curiously. "Did you?"

Sansa frowns, remembering the sharp tongue of Margaery's grandmother. "Lady Olenna says my freckles are like the pox." 

Oberyn's lip twitches, and he squeezes her hands. "You should never listen to such lies." Eyes dancing with amusement, he leans in and presses a delicate kiss to her cheek. "Would I kiss a dreadful pox so?"  

"Yes most likely." Sansa huffs, but can't resist laughing when his lips dot her nose, her temple. He backs away to take a swig of water from the canteen Daemon offers, and Sansa can't resist mentioning what else they discussed.

"They talked of Arianne too."

Daemon stiffens, eyes narrowing. "What did they say?"

"That it is a great shame to be unwed and unloved, yet I said one did not need to be wed to know love. I'm sure you know well."  

"I certainly do, though I cannot say a wedding causes hatred either." Oberyn smiles down at her, eyes crinkling, and Sansa flushes with delight.

"And you Daemon?" Sansa turns to the handsome squire. "You know it too, don't you?"

He rubs his face with a wet towel, drops of water falling from strands of hair and shining rainbow in the sun. "What I know is of no concern to Princesses."

"Well I am a Princess and it concerns me." Sansa says, placing a hand on one hot and dusty arm. "Arianne will see... Ser Arys is not the right man for her." Her lips press together with dissatisfation, remembering the blows he had dealt her. Her stomach automatically aches, and how could Arianne kiss him so? "She cannot marry him anyhow, he's of the Kingsguard."

"I have heard enough of weddings." Daemon grumbles. "It is all anyone talks about now."

Sansa tries and fails to hide a smile; she can't deny that she too was sick of all the chatter that only served to make her nerves worse. 

"Soon we will be in Dorne." Sansa says brightly. Far away from weddings and Kings who would kiss her, far away from Lannister lions and fake pregnancies.

"Thank the Gods!"

Margaery's wedding is only days away, and with it her freedom perished. Though with it, Sansa's would be gifted, and how is she expected to feel? She cannot be joyous while this friend (or foe?) of hers suffers, nor can she be sorrowful at the knowledge she is leaving this haunted city behind her for Dorne. She supposes she should just be grateful for the small blessings she currently has, Ellaria's care and Oberyn's smile, Daemon's fierceness and her ladies loyalty. Before when she was in Kings Landing she had no one, not a soul to call her friend, yet now she had a husband and friends aplenty, people who _cared._  

Oberyn gently takes her arm, leading them back to their chambers promising his whole afternoon was hers, and Sansa allows herself to smile and bask in the joy that was her husband's company for a while. Without a doubt, he would not insult Ellaria, and he certainly would  _not_ call her pox-faced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"There had been an ugly confrontation in the yard when Mace Tyrell's wizened little mother called Ellaria Sand "the serpants whore."_ \- Tyrion, ASOS.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may seem a bit rough/rushed/uneven, but I'm so busy and I wanted to finally upload it when I've had most of it written for a while. I don't know when updates for the next chapters will be, as I'm starting my final term at University and have a dissertation as well as two documentaries to film - one completely on my own! I'll try not to be too long for the next chapter :)

"I become Queen on the morrow," Margaery says airily, leaning over to gently touch Sansa's knee. Blue eyes meet brown, and Margaery smiles confidentially. "And I shall convince the King to allow your husband to be relieved from his Council duties."

"You are so kind, to burden yourself with my issues." Sansa says. "Only I doubt my husband would comply to leave quietly. Though it raises his ire being here, he is fiercely committed to his as-yet undone duties." 

Margaery need not know his cause was to bring about the downfall of House Lannister, to make them pay for his sister's death.

The pair are quite alone in the Maidensvault, Margaery having dismissed her ladies - though Sansa can imagine they were not terribly displeased after the Dornish trouble at their last meeting. Weak autumnal yellow sun streams through the windows, and the fire is heartily roaring nearby for despite the bright day there was a cold bite to the stirring breeze.     

"And what are his duties?" Margaery asks pleasantly, pouring more wine into her cup, hair shining a dozen shades of brown. "Was it not Prince Doran who was originally invited?"

"Yes." Sansa says admits. "And that is why he cares so deeply to do a good job and be a loving brother. He cannot fail him in any way and is determined to change Kings Landing through his seat on the Small Council. How can I ask him to come back to Sunspear with me when he feels it is his right to stay?"  

"But surely you will be happy, once the babe is born, to have him here? They shall be so close, your husband and son. I imagine not every wife experiences that, particulary ones with...  _extra_."

She cannot help thinking the girl is taunting her in some way, and she likes it not. Being friends with Margaery is much like holding the sigil of her house, Sansa believes. A rose so beautiful and soft, yet when your fingers brushed the thorns you would bleed from the sharp wounds. 

"My husband loves all his children, bastards they may be." Sansa says, struggling to keep the annoyance from her tone. "And you forget I have a half-brother on the Wall."

The only sibling that remained to her... Sansa's heart aches. How wonderful it would be to see Jon again! So much had transpired since last they had seen each other, with Arya and all their brothers dead. Rickon and Bran and Robb... Sansa takes a swig of wine, barely listening to Margaery's hasty apologies and how she hadn't meant it in that way, not truly. 

Her friendly meetings with Margaery tired her more than anything else aside from her future husband, what with their confusing relationship. They smiled and cared for the other, but underneath the pretty words and japes Sansa knew neither completely trusted the other girl. Why, she is to marry King Joffrey, and Sansa has risked too much information already to comfort the girl, and to Margaery Tyrell Sansa is only somewhat wise to her future groom's temperament and most likely only a source of distraction from the upcoming Wedding that occupied so many around the Red Keep. 

"I would lose my babe too, if they came here." Sansa frowns, thinking of Arianne's mother Princess Mellario, who had apparently raged and left for Norvos when Quentyn was to be warded with Lord Yronwood. Could Sansa survive giving birth to a child and then letting them go, as if they never existed? Father had been a ward in the Vale when he was young, but... "And a child should not be without their Mother."

"I shall care for him as if he were my own." Margaery promises. "And I am sure Prince Oberyn must return to Dorne eventually anyhow. His brother shall miss him most fiercely, just as I miss my own when they are away." 

"Everything he does, he does for love." Sansa sighs, looking out of the window. "And he won't ever be dissuaded." 

"Then we must hope he succeeds in all his endeavours!" The older girl laughs, and Sansa looks at Margaery and wonders what she would think if Sansa told her of her husband's true intentions for the family she was marrying into. She looks down at her lap, playing with the tiny silver ring around one finger. "For those who love intimately are so very lucky."  

"One day you will." Sansa says, leaning across to touch the cold hand of the girl across her suddenly pensive and ill at ease. Margaery looks up at her, eyes shimmering and the corner of her lips twitching into a smile. Sansa remembers her fear, at having to marry the Red Viper with a scandalous reputation. Her fear was unfounded, and Sansa's heart clenches painfully for Margaery's misgivings were entirely within reason. Sansa had been so lucky to escape, even though her family had not. To be married to a monster... surely a monster cannot live forever? He will be cut down by some man, perhaps her very own husband, and Margaery will be free to marry a man who would treat her well like she deserved. And if not, there will always be her children.   

"Do you think so, Princess?"

"I know so." Sansa nods fiercely, squeezing her hand tight. "You said yourself, one's husband and son are close. And you shall have so many handsome and gentle Princes, and daughters with hair like the sun and eyes just like your own that love you so, so much." 

"I do not intend to follow the way of other Queens and be treated like - like I am less." Margaery's eyes smolder. "If not for us, the smallfolk would still hate him. I can learn to love him, I will love him, for what he lacks I make up for and I intend us to live together in harmony as much as possible." 

Sansa nods, utterly convinced. Of course Margaery is doubly kind then Joffrey, even if her sweetness is sometimes sickly and with ulterior motive. And she is thoughtful, and brave, witty and clever, and she felt sorry for Sansa when no other did. She invited her to be friends and confessed her own fears to the only one who could possibly understand and asked for nothing in return. Of course she shall be a good Queen. She is too charming and captivating to be anything other, despite her own doubts.

"He loves you already." Sansa says.  

"Did he not love you once?" Margaery asks, skeptical. "Is it enough for you? To know you come second to a mistress?" 

"It is enough." Sansa says, caught off-guard by the sudden questions. "After all I have experienced... is not any love enough? You have your parents and grandmother that love you so, your brother Loras on the Kingsguard and your cousins as bedmaids... you are surrounded by love," Sansa thinks of her husband and Ellaria, Arianne and Doran and the Sand-Snakes, Daemon and Palissa and all her dearest ones so far away yet so close in her heart. _So close._ Her Mother and Father, her brothers and sister, always with her in memory. Surrounded by love, and the relisation of such a thing in such a place, in such an uncertain world, makes her smile tenderly at Margaery, a lump in her throat and eyes watering just like her friend's.

"Surrounded by it," She whispers. "Just as I am."  

They stare at each other for a long suspended moment, both women aware of the painful marriages their sex were forced into with no concern for the wife involved, only of what her dowry brought. Sansa is glaringly aware again of how deeply greatful she is to have a husband such as Oberyn, who neither beats her nor looks down on her. She will never be a wife having to submit and endure whatever he wished whenever, regardless of her own feelings and thoughts of the matter. She is more than a title, more than a means to produce precious heirs. A marriage like her own parents, with respect and love and true care for the other. Sansa only hopes one day Margaery, and all the unhappy women in Westeros, finds someone similiar.

"At least he has no mistress. I shall not allow him to disgrace my reputation so." Margaery says. "Have I not bewitched him entirely?"

_No, for he kissed me in the Godswood._

"Being Queen is a gift from the Gods, and to rule with such a man as King Joffrey..." She takes a thoughful sip of wine, and Sansa stares at her unsure whether to pity or admire the girl before her. 

"Margaery..." 

"Ignore me," Margaery says lowly, raising her goblet once more so Sansa has to join her in drinking. Her smile is stretched wide, and her hair gleams in the sunlight, and how can Joffrey not love her? How could she love the beast in her wedding bed? "It is only pre-Wedding nerves. I imagine all women get them. And after all," Her laugh edges on bitterness. "Have I not been the merry bride before?" 

Sansa avoids answering and instead takes a deep swallow of sweet wine, trying to ignore how sour it now tasted.

"But I shall be Queen." Margaery breathes, small frame pulled tight with ambition. Perhaps to be Queen is a comfort for her, though Sansa would rather be a lowly peasant with no title nor gold and a husband who loved her than the greatest Queen of all. "And rest assured sweetling, there are some wrongs I will swiftly right." 

_Like I and Oberyn's presence here?_

Margaery smiles at her determined, and their misery passes, and they turn to talk of more cheerful fare to distract them both from tomorrow.  _Just tomorrow,_ Sansa tells herself.  _Make it through Joffrey's Wedding and the feast after, and the next morning all will be well to set sail back to Dorne._

Whether she would be accompanied by her husband remained to be seen. 

* * *

"It is not like with you," Sansa says later, lounging closer beside Ellaria on the divan. "Nor my friends in Dorne. I wish it was, but I must mind every word I say in fear I cause offence or worse."

"The Tyrell's are not unkind folk. Only old Mace and his Mother hold grudges." Ellaria says, looking briefly across at her while finishing her letter. 

"I know Margaery is ever so kind." Sansa says, gazing up at the ceiling feeling utterly helpless for her sort-of friend. "She is clever too, for I know she fears marrying the King."

"What girl would not?" Ellaria says wryly.

"I never did," Sansa reflects, stomach twisting as she rolls over onto her front and gazes at Ellaria embarassed. " _Before._ I convinced myself he and I would be glorious together, like all the lovers in the songs... Margaery knows what I did not."   

"Likely the girl is happy she knows the truth. You have allowed her to come to terms with her fate and quietly accept it, rather then be scared out of her wits."  Ellaria counters, finishing her letter and putting it aside. 

"I know." She agrees, toying with the cuff of her dress thinking of the Tyrell girl. "She is so brave. Only... if she hints to the King-"

"I know." Ellaria echoes back with a small smile. "You find yourself in difficult waters. We all do, here. Unsure who to trust and turn to..."

"Nobody." Sansa sighs. "Aside from our own household." She takes Ellaria's hand and squeezes, gazing up at the woman's serene eyes. "Aside from  _you,_ and our Prince..." Sansa looks around their living quarters, where the nobles play cyvasse and chatter around them. It looks like Jynessa is winning whatever wager she had set, from the delighted laugh trilling from her mouth beside him.

"Where is our Prince?"

"I wager he has gone out into the city. He tends to feel cooped up after being in a place too long."

"He has an adventerous spirit." Sansa says, smiling as she rolls back onto the fat goose-feather pillows. "Going wherever the wind blows."

"That he does." Ellaria agrees. "Though I heard him mention talk of some order, so perhaps he has gone to pick it up himself."

"Order?" Sansa's ears prick up and she stares at the older woman with delight. "An order for what?"

"I know not... what would you wish it to be? New shoes?"

"Myrish lace." Sansa corrects. "Just a little, to adorn my dresses and weave through my hair when I pin it up. Ribbon would suit too, I suppose. Oh, or pearls! Tiny pearl pins, painted orange with tiny suns on. _Imagine_ Ellaria! I could have a matching set with rings and a necklace too."

Ellaria laughs at her earnest fantasy, though Sansa shall not be too disappointed if her wishes were not granted. Her husband was not a mindreader, uncanny though he was at knowing her deepest desires at times, and she had plenty money to buy her own finery if she so wished for she was spoilt enough already.

"I must look beautiful for the Wedding!" Sansa joins in her laughter. "I must look like a proper and true Princess of Dorne. Do you not desire any pretty things?" 

"I have so many items our Prince has already lavished upon me over the years." Ellaria looks at her, eyes glinting with humour. "But I would never say no to more jewels." 

Sansa's laughing reaches a crescendo, and how lovely it was to have a woman like Ellaria to talk to and laugh with! So comforting and tender, and she is a Mother in the absence of her own with no expected reward. She only treats her well from the goodness of her heart, when she could resent her terribly for marrying her true love. It seems nobody is ever allowed to marry the person they wished, and Sansa's heart wrenches for Margaery. She only wishes she could help her in some way, but she has already given her everything she knew about the King for her to do with as she wished - apart from the kiss. Never the kiss. Her lips still burn at the slightest thought of it, and she squirms beside Ellaria before standing up, thrusting the pillows aside.

"Where are you going?" Ellaria cocks her head, curious.

"The privy." Sansa lies, not knowing why for she has no destination in mind as she bids her goodbye and leaves.

Indeed, she only wanders aimlessly around the Red Keep, hovering around corners and changing directions if she hears any members of court she wishes to avoid. She feels guilty for laughing carefree with Ellaria, speculating over what their Prince has bought, while Margaery is all alone half-scared out of her mind. Unless it is only a ploy to make Sansa feel sympathetic and get her on side... but for what use? Sansa can hardly influence her husband not to do as he pleases, has she not already proven it? If she could they would both be returning back to Dorne the day after next. And she is only the daughter of a traitor with no home nor family up North apart from Jon who was sworn to the Night's Watch and barely an afterthought. She has people she loves, that much is true, but soon half will remain here while the other goes to Sunspear, and she feels as if she is slowly being pulled apart. Split clean down the middle, and she sighs mournfully, leaning to look out of the Red Keep across Kings Landing.

Sometimes she wishes she were one of the nameless ants that made up the smallfolk, scurrying along with their own lives not worrying about royal weddings and possible executions. Surely none of them are sinners like her, pretending to carry a Prince of Dorne in her empty belly. Guilt pinches at her stomach, stabbing viciously, and she bites down on her lower lip hard. What would her Mother and Father think of her? She's still staring blankly, occupied with her thoughts, when she realises the glint distracting her is from a rider adorned in jewels, trotting towards the Keep on his handsome Sand Steed. 

They meet in the courtyard, Sansa stepping out to greet him just as he jumps from the saddle. He stinks of horses, but she is so desperate for his company she doesn't care at all. He grins at her, looking like a child with his boundless enthusiasm. 

"Sansa." He hasn't noticed her melancholy mood yet, fussing about with his mount and dictating a groom. 

She wraps her arms tightly around his middle, rooting him in place. Burying her face into his chest, she allows the tension in her muscles to seep away. He is so familiar to her now, so comforting. He is able to sooth her when no other can, with no words needed. Tears well in her eyes she hastily blinks away, and she doesn't want him to remain behind while she stays, yet how could she bear staying with him? Being within Joffrey's presence for an uncertain length of time...

He murmurs softly into her ear surprised, lightly tugging a section of her hair. He twines it around his fingers as she hugs him closer, the weariness leeching from her replaced with a soft warmth hot in the pit of her stomach that melts almost all of her worries away. She takes a deep breath, and another, inhaling the scent of him and committing his presence to memory, before gazing up at him. His arms are loose around her waist, and he wears a look of complete bewilderness upon his face. 

"I haven't even given you your present yet!" He says baffled, and she lets out a watery laugh and hugs him tighter.  

* * *

"It fits perfectly." Oberyn says a little while later, admiring the handiwork of the seamstresses he had employed.

Sansa twirls around, laughing in delight. Arms held aloft, the full skirts of her new dress swirl around her as she spins, unbound hair bouncing down her back. 

"Oh it's beautiful! Thank you." She gushes dizzily, smiling as she strokes the soft fabric beneath her fingertips. "Thank you!" 

She'd been given full control over the design of her wardrobe before she left Dorne, yet her husband still managed to surprise her with extra when she was more than adequetely attired for a Princess! She had picked a sweet modest dress for the Wedding, but it was instantly forgotten at first sight of the stunning creation she now wears. Satin, coloured dark amber a few shades apart from her hair, it is prettily patterned in ornate and intricate gold stitching that catches the light most handsomely. The colours of House Martell, and Sansa traces one line as it swirls around a fat curl, twisting to end within a cluster of four bronze beads. She carefully rubs her hand over the fine embroidery, pleased it is pretty and even more delighted  _she_ is to be the wearer. She looks at her husband thrilled, cheeks hurting from the smile she has no power nor will to ever stop. He had gone personally into the dusty streets of Kings Landing to fetch his creations for her, and truly how could any man ever compete against him? 

"Well, I could not have a Princess of Dorne upstaged by anyone other than the blushing bride." Oberyn shrugs modestly, but he smiles at her joy. 

"Why, they shall not know who to be more jealous of - Oberyn or yourself." Ellaria touches her hair tenderly, gazing across at her lover with soft eyes. Indeed, Oberyn himself had ordered new handsome attire for the day. Why he had strode around like a peacock displaying its feathers he was so proud, and Sansa had found it highly amusing. It certainly did wonders to restore herself to her present wellbeing.  

"And do you have a new dress Ellaria?" Sansa inquires, for she would feel terrible if Ellaria could not also share the joy of a new gown. 

"Of course." The older woman smiles, a hint of slyness playing on her lips as she looks towards Oberyn. "Though nowhere near as grand." 

"I'll have you know the same seamstresses did both of your dresses." Oberyn blusters with mock-outrage and Ellaria laughs over the rest of his words.

"You know I care not what I wear, so long as I am with you and well in health." She places a hand on his chest, and he looks at her lovingly, thumb lifting up to trace her cheek. She leans into him, her smile so tender it _hurts_ and Sansa averts her eyes. Did she look towards him in that way? 

"You could wear rags," He whispers huskily. "And I would still think you the most beautiful woman in all the world."

Surely Oberyn would never look at her the way he does Ellaria. Sansa is awkward merely being in the same room with the pair, for they are so enthralled with on another they seem to have forgotten her presence entirely. 

She dare not talk and disturb their momentt, so she swallows hard before silently gathering her skirts and slipping away. Bare feet scurrying across the cold stone floor, the sweet smelling rushes tangling amongst her toes, she shuts the bedchamber door behind her and heads downstairs to find Jynessa or Meria.

She cannot pretend it is not vanity that encourages her, that wants her friends to coo over her gift and wish they had husbands so generous. It has been so long since she has been an object of jealously, since she has been admired or looked upon pleasantly by members of the nobility _._ Long used to looks of hate and mistrust or even worse pity, Sansa feels radiantly light as she twirls into her own rooms. Her friends are absent within, so she merely falls onto the bed with a satisfied sigh, hugging herself tight. What did it matter, that Oberyn had not noticed her leave in the dress he gifted her, for he had ordered this specially for her... At the thought she sits immediately upright, for what is she thinking lounging in it so and creasing the costly fabric! If she continued to laze about it would look entirely inappropriate for its true purpose. She calls in her maid from the next room, and the girl carefully helps her remove the gown and redresses her into another, plainer everyday dress. 

"Prince Oberyn wishes it to be faultless." Sansa tells the girl before leaving. If she were to ruin the dress by being careless so soon after he has specially commissioned it for her... she shudders. If only she could find someone, anyone to talk to!

The only Dornish nobles that remain in their cornerfort are all men engaged in a game of cards she has little interest in, and she knew she had blessed the ladies to do as they desired while she and Ellaria attended the dress fittings with Oberyn, but to have dispersed so throughly! It is entirely bizarre, yet she cannot be surprised when she sees the suspected reason walking up to her in the cleared out corridors around the centre of the Dornish party.  

"Your Grace." Sansa disguises her sigh in the tendrils of her loose hair as she curtseys.  

"The Dornishman's wife." Joffrey says amused, and Sansa nods. Yes, she is the Dornishman's wife. 

_Does he not know how that song ends?_

"Yet there are no Dornishmen around." Sansa laughs, for her husband was with Ellaria and only the gods knew where Daemon was. What use it would be if they were beside her anyhow? The King would only command them to be mute and deaf like his accompanying Kingsguard. 

With no hesitation, Joffrey lunges straight into his latest complaint.

"My little spies saw you." He says, torn between triumph and annoyance. The apples of his cheeks colour fragmentally, spun gold eyelashes batting up-down, up-down as he jabs one fat thumb at her in accusation. "My little spies saw  _you._ " He repeats, to make it clear. "When you hugged him earlier, and that snake husband of yours kissed your whole face in the training yard yesterday." 

"He likes my freckles." Sansa fires back boldly.

"I like your freckles! You told me you hated him." Joffrey hisses, spittle flecking Sansa's cheek. Sansa calmly wipes away his spit with the back of one hand, not breaking eye contact with the irate monarch. "Why did you lie?" 

"Tell me." He demands.  _He looks like a disgruntled babe_. "Or you'll see how you like your bastard of a husband when-"

"I... I wanted to make you jealous." She says. "I was so bereaved when you sent me away to Dorne! They are so wild there, and I knew none of them, and I only wanted you to know the agony I felt, Your Grace, at being forced to marry another! And- and I see you with Lady Margarey riding together and it sickens me and I wanted you to feel the same. I try to make my Prince happy because he tries to make me happy and I try to love him _I do_ , but how can I fall in love with any man when I have been so affected by you?" Sansa finishes breathless, gazing into his eyes with a fierce burning deep in her belly. "You have touched me so deeply I believe no man shall ever make me feel the same."

"Well," Joffrey puffs his chest out, his smile more wormlike then ever in his pacified conceit. "I am the King. Every woman in Westeros wants me to love them." And he leans forward, and strokes Sansa's cheek with one long finger, and Sansa does not need to fake her shiver. 

"You're leaving soon I know." He takes her hands, clutching them tight within his forcing their eyes to meet. "And I have got the most excellent farewell gift for you." 

"A gift?" Sansa asks warily, certain she will hate Joffrey's as much as she loved Oberyn's. 

"It is my pleasure to give it to you, and if you love me as you say you do, I'm sure you'll thank me for it." His voice is sincere as he kisses her fingers and leaves, laughing. 

The Kings whirlwind visit of accusation and the hasty half-lies she conjured leaves Sansa stood silent in the corridor, slowly absorbing the aftermath. He has a gift for her, whether good or bad she knew not - though knowing Joffrey she suspected something ill-advised. 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extremely long wait for this chapter, but I've finished university now! So updates will be a lot quicker! Thanks for all the lovely reviews you continue to leave :)
> 
> Some dialogue is lifted directly from A Storm Of Swords, covering the chapters of Joffrey's wedding, but I've tried to change or expand on most of it to make it seem different.

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut, yet when she opens them it remains daybreak.

Childish, to wish her surroundings would change while unaware, but the small aching part of her heart she left behind in Winterfell clenches to be at home with the wild winter snows freezing cold around her. Wind billowing around her ankles, snapping her cloak and lazy flakes coating her lips as they drifted to the floor, melting in her hair like they had in Robb's and Rickon's and Mother's. 

Her reflection in the looking glass is pale and miserable, done with the day's events already. Her stomach pinches, though whether from nerves or the onset of her moonblood Sansa knows not. It is due upon her soon with all it implied and one less lie will plague her, though like as not Joffrey would delight at her garbed in Lannister crimson, blood seeping and taking away her imagined child. Sansa convinces herself that if she were to bleed now it would be unnoticed in the surrounding events. It is the King's Wedding day after all, even though there was only one King she wanted to see and never would.  _I must be as brave as Robb, when I look him in the eyes._ Joffrey will be looking for any sign of weakness, but any show he puts on she will endure with smiles or sobs, whichever he prefers - whichever will satisfy him and allow her to leave as quickly as possible. 

A soft knock at the door makes her head turn, and she watches as Ellaria steps into her bedchamber. Her painted mouth is set in a comforting smile, only growing as she reaches Sansa. 

"Are you ready?"

Her face is glowing, dark hair loosely plaited in a simple yet becoming braid, and her lightly tinted lips are an attractive rose red. 

Sansa's own lips are plain and pale as she nods, sweat rising on her back threatening to ruin her dress before the day has properly begun. Wiping clammy hands in the folds of her skirts, she rises with unsteady knees and a dry mouth. 

"You look beautiful Ellaria... Your lips are very red. Lannister red." She lets out a nervous laugh, making Ellaria lean in. Slowly, tender in a way only a parent can be, she gently brushes Sansa's hair back to gaze into her eyes. Sansa can see the calm commanding her within, and only wishes she could act similar. 

"Uller red." The older woman corrects.

 _Yes,_  Sansa thinks to herself, _Ellaria has no reason to worry with her bastard status_. Though were the Stark's not now considered nothing but traitors? Wolves that were too wild, and the sole survivor tamed by marriage to a Prince known for his uncaring nature. How glad Sansa is that her fears were unfounded and Oberyn was the husband she had always wished for as a child! 

"Your Father's colour." Sansa recognises. The small smile she shares with Ellaria is bittersweet. "My new gown for the feast is grey."

"The King and his new Queen will love us, if they even notice us at all."  

Sansa nods. "Yes. Of course, King Joffrey has eyes only for his Lady Margaery."

 _If only it were true._  

The glass beads sewn delicately on to her dress catch the sunlight and shine like tiny flames, yet she feels anything but bright and warm as she trails after Ellaria into her husband's rooms. She is so preoccupied with various outcomes of the day ranging from mildly bothersome to life-ending, that she almost misses Oberyn's smile. She is dragged from her worry when his hands grab hers, squeezing. His smile manages to raise one of her own in response, and he presses a tender kiss to her cheek.

"I am married to the Martell sun!"

"Then I must be married to the spear." Sansa says lightly, eyes raking over Oberyn's attire.

Dressed in russet silk, with amber jewels sewn around the collar and hem sleeves of his doublet, her husband complements her own dress perfectly. With Ellaria's dress of bronze velvet, they are a united trio of Martell's, regardless of Ellaria's last name. 

_I am a Martell now, and returning home on the morrow. Joffrey must see that._

By nightfall, Joffrey will be wedded and bedding Margarey, and Sansa will be spending her last night with Oberyn and Ellaria - a bedding of a different sort, with only hugs and sweet nothings whispered into her ears. They haven't explicitly discussed yet who Ellaria will choose to remain with, but Sansa assumes the woman herself will be planning to leave with her; her heart is too good to leave Sansa travelling alone. Sansa has been ordered to go by the King himself but Ellaria was never named, and she has not mentioned her own plans; perhaps she believes herself too unimportant a person. Regardless of Ellaria's personal choice, Sansa knows the older woman must remain behind with her husband, even if Ellaria and Oberyn are opposed to it, for he needs someone to restrain him from his most reckless acts. Besides, Sansa will have Daemon to shield her from harm, and it will be pleasant for Ellaria once Olenna Tyrell returns to Highgarden. 

"Weddings are a cause for celebration." Oberyn gently reminds her as he takes her arm.

She nods, thinking she must be a poor partner for her limbs are stiff as she forces herself to keep walking. Truly she desires nothing more than to hide away, to be in the Water Gardens or Winterfell, but Oberyn's arm anchors her and Ellaria's warm body shadowing hers reassures her she is not alone even though she feels she is.  _I am brave. I **am.**_

* * *

Her pregnancy lie serves her well, as her stomach is so knotted she can barely eat.

She picks at fruit and fish, crumbling honeycakes with the tip of her trembling fork when Joffrey glances her way. Her husband gently encourages her when he notices her reluctance and at his worried urging she manages some of the Dornish eggs, the heat of the peppers barely affecting her she is so used to the spice. 

In time, the cloak is duly presented to the King by his Mother Queen Cersei, but Sansa can only think how beautiful her own was. Yes, her white velvet was much finer than this Lannister threadbare one. Her wedding was more then she had ever dreamed, and how she wishes she were there instead of this one! Time seems to stretch out, minutes passing like hours as various gifts are presented to the smirking King. Preoccupied as he is with his fawning subjects spoiling him, Sansa is glad to be temporarily left ignored. The day is still young after all.

A small glittering pile collects in front of the King, of golden bows and silver spurs, riding boots and a beautiful red leather jousting saddle from his great-uncle Ser Kevan. Sansa and her husband had gifted him a red gold brooch worn in the shape of a scorpion, and only Sansa and Ellaria know Oberyn went to the cheapest jeweller to have it made. The shining gold will likely soon chip away, and nothing gives Sansa more satisfaction. Under the table, Oberyn's fingers tickle her palm and she smiles with delight, leaning up and into him, lips almost brushing one ear.

"We had finer gifts at our Wedding." Sansa whispers to him, feeling bold.  

"Indeed we did." He breathes back. His lips are glossy from the red wine, Sansa realises slowly, and wonders if they would taste the same.  

So involved she is with her husband, she almost misses Joffrey's outburst.  _Almost._

"Why would I waste time reading when I have a new wife to make a woman of?" 

When Sansa looks up at the sound of loud laughter, the King is shoving a beautifully bound book across the table derisively.  _Likely he doesn't know how to read it._

Sansa tilts her head to see the title; a magnificent tome titled "Lives Of Four Kings". It reminds her of Oberyn, and how she had caught him reading about the Stark Kings shortly after her arrival in Dorne. 

"My Father had no time for books." Joffrey continues, looking up with dangerous eyes. "Which courtier presents my next gift? Surely anything will be better than..." He lifts the cover derisively, letting it fall. " _This._ " 

Lord Tyrell steps forward, presenting his gift of a huge bejewelled chalice. It glimmers with the sigils of the seven main houses of Westeros. Sansa gazes at the pearl direwolf and clutches Oberyn's hand tighter. It looked sad. Sad and snarling, teeth glinting silver identical to the leaping trout of House Tully beside it. 

"A splendid cup," Joffrey says, with a satisfied nod and a tiny smirk in her direction. "but we'll need to chip the wolf off and put a squid in its place, I think."

Sansa's jaw tightens, more so when Lord Tywin presents his grandson with a large ornate longsword which is immediately put to use destroying the gift from Lord Tyrion given only mere seconds earlier. Thrusting forward, eyes feverishly bright as the blade slices into the grand book, Joffrey smiles and yanks his weapon out, forcing it in again with a grunt. Split leather cracks and slips apart, pieces of parchment dusting the trestle tabletop like a summer snowstorm, and Sansa feels ill watching him take joy in such an awful act.  _He will never be gentle with Margaery. Not ever._

Beside her Oberyn frowns, dark eyes narrowed. "That is too handsome a sword by far for the likes of him."

"Certainly not deserved for ruining such a rare piece of work." Ellaria says, lips twisted with distaste.

Indeed, most of the guests in the Queen's Ballroom are shocked as Joffrey uses his newly-named Widow's Wail to shove a piece of the book onto the floor. It lands with a heavy thud, and Sansa sees Tyrion's wince from far down the table.

"It seems only the bad people are rewarded in this world." Sansa says. She bites back a mournful sigh, for it should be Robb before her, getting married to a girl he loved - married in a way that did not end in  _murder._ Joffrey is King, he has all he desires and more, yet all he does is use his power to ruin and destroy the lives of people he could protect. 

"How so?" Her husband gently knocks his shoulder against hers, forever childish. "Was I not blessed with you?"

Sansa can't help but grin. "Some would call _you_ bad, Red Viper."  

"Only the liars." He winks, though his playful nature disappears as he takes a sip of wine and observes the masses as they begin to rise. "And as it happens, I am surrounded by them here."  

He downs the last of his wine and stands, stalking through the dispersing crowd of courtiers eagerly ready to attend the wedding. Sansa and Ellaria exchange a worried look and follow, especially when they spot his familiar figure appoaching Lord Tyrion himself. 

"The book," Sansa says, to reassure her and Ellaria both. "He will only be talking of the book."

And, true to her uncertain word, when the pair reached their foolish Prince he was deep in conversation with him. 

"-the Citadel's copy of Lives of Four Kings," Oberyn says, as Ellaria twines her arm around his, a physical manacle to restrain him if he dared act dangerously. "The illuminations were wondrous to behold, but Kaeth was too kind by half to King Viserys."

"Too kind?" Tyrion says sharply. His eyes flicker sideways to meet hers for a second before snapping back to her husband. "He scants Viserys shamefully, in my view. It should have been Lives of Five Kings."

"Viserys hardly reigned a fortnight." Oberyn's laugh is full of scorn, and Sansa presses closer into him, the sharp edge of her hip digging into his side.  

"He reigned more than a year!" 

"A year or a fortnight, what does it matter? He poisoned his own nephew to gain the throne and then did nothing once he had it."

"Baelor starved himself to death, fasting," Tyrion argues. "His uncle served him loyally as Hand, as he had served the Young Dragon before him. Viserys might only have reigned a year, but he ruled for fifteen, while Daeron warred and Baelor prayed." He twists his face. "And if he did remove his nephew, can you blame him? Someone had to save the realm from Baelor's follies."

Sansa stares at Tyrion. He would call Baelor's acts  _follies!_ He was a true hero, despite not taking part in any active warfare.

"But Baelor the Blessed was a great king! He walked the Boneway barefoot to make peace with Dorne, and rescued the Dragonknight from a snakepit. The vipers refused to strike him because he was so pure and holy."

Sansa had learnt all about him from her studies with Maester Luwin. He was one of the best Targaryen Kings, despite locking his sisters in the Maidenvault and ignoring his duty to produce an heir. He gave charity to the poor smallfolk and returned hostages without harm. He saved the _Dragonknight,_  willing to sacrifice his own life for him if the Gods decided to strike him down! 

Tyrion Lannister squints at her with mismatched eyes of black and green, scepticism clear. 

Beside her Oberyn smiles fondly, long fingers gently twining around and pulling a lock of her red hair close forcing her to stare at him. She cannot say she is displeased for her husband is handsome, especially with his eyes shining and lips quirked so.

"If you were a viper, my lovely lady wife, would you want to bite a bloodless stick like Baelor the Blessed? I'd sooner save my fangs for someone juicier . . . " 

Sansa flushes at the thought. 

"Our prince is playing with you, Sansa," Ellaria rolls her eyes, and Sansa turns to her with her skin still prickling at the thought of Oberyn's lips, his teeth biting- "The septons and singers like to say that the snakes did not bite Baelor, but the truth is very different. He was bitten half a hundred times, and should have died from it." 

Sansa frowns, though she cannot say she is entirely too surprised. Has she not learnt that all the songs are lies? And if not that, then they are exaggerated and twisted until the truth is barely seen through the pretty facade.

"If he had, Viserys would have reigned a dozen years," Tyrion says, "and the Seven Kingdoms might have been better served. Some believe Baelor was deranged by all that venom."

"Yes," Her husband agrees, arm tightening around Sansa. "but I've seen no snakes in this Red Keep of yours. So how do you account for Joffrey?"

Tyrion stiffens. "I prefer not to. Excuse me, my litter awaits." 

"Did you have to antagonise him?" Ellaria sighs into the silence as the three of them watch the small Lannister make his way to the litter waiting for him. 

"No. But I wanted to." He grins, and, ignoring both of the women's glares, he changes the subject so deftly Sansa is annoyed at herself after. "Perhaps I'll take you to the Citadel one day to show you their copy of the _Four Kings_ , if you are so interested in Baelor. There are other scrolls of information on his reign too, and all the others before and after him. I wager there's even records on the Kings of Winter."

Sansa _would_ like that, greatly. To learn of her history, not just the Stark lineage but the Martell one... she hungers for it, to learn of their lives and the good and bad they did. Only there was one problem, and she crinkles her nose with annoyance as they wander down to another litter bedecked in the House Martell sigil.  

"Women can't enter the Citadel. I don't know why, for it's only books." 

"Well, there is a little more to it then just books," Oberyn holds out a hand to help her into their ride. "But I quite agree. All can improve their lives with a little knowledge, it is only a pity the Maesters don't share the same sentiment... though I am sure with a disguise I could smuggle you in."

He settles in beside her as Ellaria lounges back opposite, watching with faint interest as Sansa laughs. Imagine her, dressed as a boy! No, Arya would have been far more suited for  _that._

"And what would you do? Cut my hair? Clothe me in breeches?" 

"My daughters do it frequently."

"Your daughters are bastards and can do as they please." Sansa points out. 

"That is true." Oberyn agrees. "Though I am sure the acolytes would not object to a Stark Princess of Dorne having a quick tour if I returned for a visit. They have many rare books of learning."

"What type of books? I like the romance stories... the historical ones."

Her mind idly wanders back to the stories Old Nan used to tell her and her siblings as they gathered around the roaring fire on snow days, talking of wights and warriors, spiders and snarks in that old, quivering voice she had which only made everything she said more scary. She doubts the Citadel contains stories such as the thirteenth commander of the Night's Watch, who fell in love with a woman who was winter herself and proclaimed themselves a King and Queen. Likely the Citadel scorned such tales - or perhaps they would welcome it given their annoyance towards women, as it showed a girl as a fearless warrior's downfall... just as Elia's brutal murder motivates her husband for revenge.  _It is cruel, to make an example of women in such a way._

"Like Baelor the Blessed hmm?"

"Yes." Sansa says, leaning closer into him. He smells of citrus and sweat, for the autumn heat is warm, but Sansa does not mind. She likes the smell for it is purely _him,_ and she leans her head on his arm with a sigh, the swaying of the litter relaxing her. She had slept little the night before, her thoughts too loud to ignore. "Though he's not my favourite King." 

"And who is that then?" 

"King Torrhen. He knelt to Aegon Targaryen and his dragons to save his people,  _our_ people of the North. Not one person died that day, because of him. He sacrificed his pride and his ambition, instead of his people and his own life..."  

She used to love King Brandon the Burner, for destroying all the North's ships to try and fix his broken heart was terribly romantic, but Oberyn didn't need to know that. Though truly, Brandon had also been trying to protect his people from what he saw as danger. 

Oberyn's arm makes a nice pillow, and she laces her fingers with his as she continues. "He had a bastard brother too, Brandon Snow, that offered to kill the dragons himself with just one weirwood arrow, and when King Torrhen refused and sent him on another task he did it. He rode alone apart from three maesters to negotiate a deal that kept everyone safe, even though he disagreed... all for the love he bore his brother and kingdom."

She wonders if Jon loves her enough to do that if she ever asked of it. Likely not, for he is always so quick to anger he'd have no skill at diplomacy. Though, maybe he had changed. Sansa knows she has, and Jon is a member of the Night's Watch now, a man grown.  _And he always was fair, despite his status._

"So King Torrhen, the King Who Knelt, is my favourite King. Aside from my brother Robb of course."

"Of course." He hums, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "And you need not fear. The Citadel have every book in the known world you could wish to read."

"Will this visit be before or after the Lannister's take offence at your insults and decide to punish you for it?" Ellaria asks pleasantly, gaze flickering from the bright streets of Kings Landing to Oberyn. 

"They won't." Sansa says. "For they will have nothing to punish him for. _Will they?_ "

"Even if they did decide to discipline me," Oberyn says calmly, ignoring Sansa entirely. "It would be worth it. Whatever they do, they cannot kill me. I'm a  _Prince._ "

"They killed your sister." Ellaria snaps back. "Her status did not save Elia."

Heavy, uncomfortable silence enters the litter. Oberyn looks at Ellaria wounded, and Sansa presses her lips together awkwardly. Ellaria's words ring with unmistakable truth after all, despite Oberyn's refusal to see it. They killed her Father and he was a Great Lord, they killed Robb and he was a  _King._ Of course they would think nothing of killing a Martell known to start fights!

Sansa turns to gaze out of the curtains, the rose petals strewn underneath by the adoring smallfolk doing little to shift the smell of dung that hangs heavy over the city. The Great Sept looms before them, and the sight of the steps only makes Sansa's nausea increase. Her Father had his head cut off for treason, yet Oberyn persists to attempt worse. Her Father was murdered before the King wed a Tyrell bride after all, the family with a notorious hatred of her husband.

 _This place is poison._  Sansa thinks bitterly, watching ragged peasants pant for breath as they struggle up the hill in the hope of seeing their new Queen first; a Queen they hoped would bring them mercy and care, piety and charity in recompense for their cruel King.  _It destroys everything and everyone in it. T_ _he_ _sooner I leave, the better._


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry for the delay. Life happens, and if I have to be honest I'm sort of falling out of love with the ASOIAF fandom. The waiting between books is so long and the fandom is beginning to annoy me with all the drama, hate and shipping wars, BUT rest assured I intend to finish this story! This chapter definitely kicks off the final act :)

Sansa inhales shakily, fingers trembling as she presses them into the hollow curve of her collarbone.

Her necklace is cold heavy iron, burying deep into the tender skin of her neck and she digs her nails under the constricting noose to allow herself to breathe easier. Hands skirting around her throat, her heartbeat flutters underneath steel skin, tired eyes wary of her own reflection gazing deep into the looking glass. It makes Sansa want to laugh. It makes her want to scream.  _Look_ , she wants to tell someone. _I hardly trust myself, let alone any other!_

Thumb rubbing the cold amber stones of her necklace, Sansa watches the tiny crease form between her eyebrows. She trusts Oberyn. She trusts Ellaria, and Daemon too. Her situation is better than before. _She_ is better than before. _Isn't she?_

Her return to Dorne is all but organised and she is determined nothing shall delay it. Her moonblood will be upon her soon with all it implied, and one less lie will plague her. Joffrey will surely welcome her garbed in Lannister crimson, and she has encountered blood all too often to be scared of it now. She laughs darkly under her breath as she rises from her dresser, nowhere near ready to grace the newly wed monarchs with her presence at their wedding feast. 

As promised, Ellaria stands waiting for her, black head of hair shining in the candlelight as she adjusts the bronze bracelets snaking around her wrists. She looks up at Sansa's entrance, smiling. 

"You look beautiful."

"Thank you." Sansa says, trying to ignore the nervous twisting of her stomach. Running her fingers over the heavy jewels stitched into her bodice, she takes a step forward. "You do too."

"Weddings are supposed to be fun." Ellaria reminds her, rubbing ruby painted lips together as she gently takes Sansa's hands in hers. 

It _is_ only a wedding. There will be rich food and fine dresses and the company of dear friends. Joffrey cannot harm her in the presence of so many surely, in fact he had promised her a gift...

Her stomach churns, for Joffrey's hospitality does not comfort her, especially not on his wedding day. Margarey must understand Sansa is a loyal wife, already wedded and bedded as far as the court knew, and anything Joffrey bestows on her is not borne from encouragement. She has prayed for days that he will ignore her as he enjoys the company of his new wife and all she can give him. Legitimate children, a golden heir, and a wife that will soften his temper... If the Gods are good that is, and they rarely have been when Sansa is involved. Only a wedding Ellaria tells her, but her brother and Mother died at one the smallfolk call  _Red._

"The King has his little rose and soon you will be back in Dorne. Think of tonight as a farewell feast."

The last time she had attended a farewell banquet had been at Winterfell, in that wistfully happy time before she left and everything went wrong. To think of tonight as a farewell feast, with Ellaria a stand in Mother and Jynessa for Jeyne... she has a husband now, and would never again gaze at Joffrey like a lovestruck fool, but she cannot help but be horribly reminded of the fates of her previous family and friends.

"A farewell. Yes."

Ellaria presses a delicate spice-scented kiss to Sansa's cheek before leading her away from the safety of her bedchamber. The faint chatters of other Dornish nobles getting ready behind closed doors seem far away as they walk down stone steps, footsteps echoing in the grey gloom. The silence between them is acknowledged with Ellaria's hand squeezing hers tighter. A promise perhaps, that the night will not be as bad as Sansa fears. She knows deep down in the pit of her belly that with Ellaria by her side any hysteria can be calmed by her influence, any rising passion tempered and cautioned, analysed thoroughly. It is for this reason and more that her hands softly pull her companion to a standstill outside Oberyn's door. They look at the heavy oak longingly, awaiting their lover on the other side, but more pressing needs prickle under Sansa's skin. 

Margarey had promised to talk to Joffrey when she was crowned Queen, but when has he ever done anything to her out of kindness? The urging of his new wife will likely not move him to be generous, and then where would they be? All of them punished, when none need be.

"You need to stay with him Ellaria."

Ellaria turns to her, forehead crinkling with confusion, and Sansa swallows the hot lump of tears in her throat, for she hates to say the words as much as Ellaria dislikes hearing them.

Sansa's voice is a mere whisper, almost unheard in the near-dark. Her hands, hot and fumbling, clutch at Ellaria's. "You can't come back to Dorne with me." 

"And leave you travelling alone?"

Sansa summons up another smile as she voices the exact concern Sansa knew she would. "I will have Daemon to shield me from harm. I was ordered away but _you_ were not."

She was never mentioned by the King, nothing more than a bastard paramour to the nobles of court, and Sansa gazes at her, every inch of her being willing the older woman to listen, no matter how much it hurt. In the end, it would be worth it.  _It has to be._

"It will be safe for you here after the Wedding. Lady Olenna will be returning to Highgarden, and the King will be preoccupied with his new wife... Ellaria he needs someone to stop him from doing something stupid. Oberyn-" Her voice falters, and she swallows thickly, lip trembling into a smile at the thought of her husband. Tall and handsome and impossibly hot-headed, one not to be trusted when passion stirred him.

"My husband is hasty, as you well know. Please, I need you to stay and stop him from doing anything foolish for all our sakes."

Ellaria sighs, exhaling a slow breath from between parted lips. Sansa can feel it wash over her, the scent of Dornish red, and leans in closer. 

" _Please._ You are the only one I can trust here. I would stay here myself only..." The tears well in earnest then, and Sansa takes a shaky breath, as rattled as Ellaria is calm. Ellaria's fingers rise to her face, the warmth radiating through her skin, and Sansa will miss her terribly, more so than Oberyn in some ways, and she leans into her, eyes fluttering closed. They stay that way for one long second, the pads of Ellaria's thumbs circling Sansa's cheeks in comfort. 

"It is not a sign of weakness."

The fierce tone of her voice makes Sansa's eyes open slowly. Fire blazes deep within the dark brown, and Ellaria has never looked more beautiful, more righteous.

"Some would say that to flee is to be cowardly, but acknowledging a threat and retreating is wise. To have the courage to say  _no_ and turn your back on that which harms you instead of staying and getting hurt is strong. Do you hear me Sansa? Nobody, not I or Oberyn or anyone in Dorne thinks badly of you for returning."

Sansa's blinks past the wetness rising in her eyes. "But I-"

"Sometimes a snake must retire themselves from the fight to make themselves stronger." A small smile curves on Ellaria's mouth. "A wolf too, I wager. Retreat and repair and know next time... next time they'll be better."

"And if they aren't?" Sansa finds herself saying. "What if they want no next time and just want to forget it all happened?"

"Then that is fine too. Not everyone is a fighter." Her lips press against Sansa's forehead. "But you are. You like to think you're not, with your pretty words and shy smiles but to keep going after everything you have endured? You are stronger than you think, and you'll go back to Dorne tomorrow and enjoy yourself, you hear me? You learn from Doran and laugh with Arianne and play with your friends in the Water Gardens. You do  _not_ worry over Oberyn."

"Because... because you will stay?"

"Because I will stay." 

Sansa nods, lips pressed together as two persistent tears fall from her eyes to land sticky on her collarbone. 

"You are the only one who can dissuade him. The only one he listens to." 

 "Then you listen to me now. You do not think of what may be happening here, you do not make yourself sick fretting over I and Oberyn, you focus on  _you_ and nothing else. You said it yourself, it will be safe for me here after tonight." 

Sansa nods reluctantly, torn between guilt and relief. Her stomach clenches uncomfortably, her chest tightening, and instead of blurting out the million words she could say, she merely leans into Ellaria, arms tightening around her shoulder as they hug tightly. She will miss her, and she only prays to the Old Gods and the New that they keep Ellaria free from harm. She buries her face into the woman's shoulder, her skin hot against hers, and they stay that way for a long time, long enough for Oberyn to interrupt him.

The source of their shared pain swings his door open, and Sansa's head rises an inch to peer over Ellaria's shoulder. An eager smile already plays around the edges of Oberyn's mouth, yet he pauses abruptly at their presence before him. She expects him to laugh, or chuckle at the very least, to make a remark that brings red to Sansa's cheeks and an eye roll from Ellaria, but when she looks at him properly his eyes are impossibly soft.

"Can I join?"

When Sansa and Ellaria nod in unison, he takes a step forward, wrapping one around Sansa and the other around Ellaria. In their warm embrace Sansa feels safe, secure, impossibly loved, and it takes every bit of willpower within herself to eventually drag herself away. 

"We'll be late."

"We will make an entrance regardless." Oberyn smiles. "All eyes will be on you, for you are so beautiful." He takes her hand with elegant fingers, gently twisting her arm around to brush his lips across her pulse, throbbing in her wrist. She stares at him, biting down on her bottom lip as heat flares in her belly.

"As are you." She manages to say. His rakish smile only increases the flutters, and she takes his offered arm without recalling for a moment why she even hesitated to walk with him.

The relief only lasts so long, for as the herald cries their name and they're escorted down the main aisle to take their seats her laughter at Oberyn's chatter withers and dies on her lips as if it never bloomed.

He is kind to her, kinder than she deserves, for he pulls out her chair and helps her in before waving off all the pretended courtesies and practised lies by the courtiers who would engage them in conversation. Out of sorts from the babe, he claims, and she cannot deny the rush of affection that warms her as he fends off gossips with a warm smile. He rubs her shoulder as she shivers, skin prickling first with nerves and then affection.

"You're cold."

Sansa nods uneasily. "Winter is coming." 

Her sweat-slicked palms (how is she sweating when she's shivering? _Fear,_ her mind taunts her, _because you know something bad will happen_ ) smooth the crimson and gold tablecloth spread before them. They'd been seated away from the royal table, below the dais. Suitable for a Dornish Prince and his retinue; far surpassing the seat a Stark traitor might expect to have. 

"What are you thinking?" He inquires softly, head tilted.

Her eyes flit to her husbands, and she wets her lips slightly. Eyes darting covertly around before she motions him closer. He leans in, their hair dangling between them to provide a convenient screen, so close they could be kissing, and their whispers are entirely private to the chatter around them.

"It sounds stupid." The ghost of a confession, fluttering on Oberyn's jawbone. 

"How do you know when I've not heard it yet?"

"I just do." She sighs. "Because of how it makes me feel." 

"Then tell me. I want to know. You have made me insatiably curious." 

Emboldened by the curious gleam in his eye, she takes a deep breath. 

"I never thought about your reputation." She whispers in a rush, feeling the blush creep up her cheeks. "I mean, I  _did,_ only I know the real you. I know you never do anything without my consent, and you are gentle and kind... but the people here, they do not know the  _real_ you. I never asked you before I lied, and it's sad."

Bolstered by his understanding nod, she continues. "It is sad because I know the real you hasn't done any of the monstrous stuff they say and... it must hurt you terribly. I know it hurt me to hear my family slandered, and I did not think of the things they would whisper about you because of me. I only thought of myself. I know before I met you how terrified I was just from the rumours and now I have made you seem worse! Your own wife!" 

Oberyn smiles, and he twines a lock of her hair between his fingers entirely unaffected by her confession. "Sansa I do not care what people say about me." 

"I know I am already looked upon as a traitor." She continues miserably. "And I know you are Dornish and people are prejudiced but even so you are well regarded as a Princely sort and I... I have ruined that for my own perverse gamble. I was selfish."  

"Sansa you are not selfish in the least. The only people whose opinion matters are those that know me, and as nobody in this hellhole particularly cares for me, I do not care for them."  

"But you will be here without me after tonight and have to endure all the talk alone."

His fingers reach up to skirt her cheek. "Did you not have to do the same after your Father's death? I am a grown man, I assure you I care nothing for trivial lies."  

"Only the big ones." _Lord Tywin denying he ordered the death of Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon, his sister and her tiny children..._ "And a baby is big." Sudden panic flares in her, and she clutches his hand tight. "I should have never have said such a thing, I should _stay_ with you-"

"You are not going to stay with me."

"But if I go to Dorne I will only wish to be here with you, and Ellaria has told me not to worry but how can I not when you are my husband and hotheaded! This mess is all my fault anyhow. If I hadn't have been so stupid-"

"Stop that. You know you're not stupid. If you were stupid you would have no room in that beautiful head of yours to fret." He raps her forehead with a brush of his knuckles. Sansa's lips wobble despite herself but she cannot let herself smile. 

"What are you two whispering about?" 

They pull apart slowly at the voice intruding. Sansa can only think in horror of what she looks like, red faced and blinking rapidly, her husband slinging his arm around her shoulders as he aims a smirk at Jynessa across the table. 

"Baby names." Oberyn says, lying with aplomb. "My wife is traditional." 

"She is going to name him after...?" Daemon's voice trails off beside her friend.   

"Not her Father, but mine will suit if it's a boy."

"We are lying to our friends." Sansa cannot resist whispering, and he looks down his nose at her before leaning in to murmur conspiratorially in her ear, breath tickling. 

"If you persist in saying such I will have no option but to stop you."

"How?" 

His eyes twinkle. "Keep talking and you'll find out."

Intrigue quivers in Sansa's belly, and she wipes her wet hands on her dress, clearing her throat. Her eyes meet his; if she is to truly leave on the morrow why not attempt to have a little fun amongst the sorrow? A pleasing memory to part with, to recall in the deep of night as she sleeps alone. Did she have the courage though? He could do  _anything_ to stop her. Of course, it would be most effective to close her mouth, refuse to let the words come out.  She could imagine the lips against hers all too well, soft yet unyielding, a master of such lessons teaching her slowly until she was as good and practised as he... 

"What a waste of entertainment." Oberyn's voice pulls her away from her silly fantasies. He's poured himself a cup of wine and reclined deep into his chair, his black gaze gaze sweeping across the throne room holding more than a little disdain, and he seems entirely, frustratingly unaffected by Sansa's flustered imaginings next to him. "Truly, the Dornish have style that far surpasses  _this._ "

Sansa can't help but laugh at his proud bragging, though privately she has to agree. Though the musicians number plenty, the only decoration was the crimson, gold and green streamers adorning the Iron Throne, high above them all. 

When the King and his new Queen ride into the throne room on white horses Sansa can only compare to the elephant she had fed apples to, and the rose petals were nothing against the fireworks that had spiralled in the night sky... how could Joffrey ever compare to Oberyn? She certainly had a better wedding night than poor Margarey is doomed to have.

A flurry of kisses await the new monarchs from their joined families, though Sansa is more interested in Daemon directly opposite her. Like her, his face is turned away from the gushing Tyrells, but unlike her, he stares down at the tabletop before him. Distantly, the High Septon starts his blessing, but Sansa gives it no more than a fleeting thought. Why should she listen to the Gods? When have they listened to her? Daemon is far more interesting, far more appealing, the way his hair flops into his concentrating eyes unaware. His hands, nimble and calloused, delicately twist a gold embroidered napkin, folding corners and tucking edges away. He turns it around, considering the appearance from the other side before plunging back into his task, and slowly it begins to form a shape. A rose. 

Sansa smiles enchanted, especially when Daemon grins up at her and pushes it across the table. He had been entirely aware of her spying, and her cheeks warm. He winks. 

"A rose for a rose." 

She blushes harder. 

"Bravo, Daemon!" Oberyn tilts his goblet towards his former squire in appreciation before draining the rest of his drink. Ellaria frowns, and Sansa shares the same concern etched in her eyes. If Oberyn continues to partake in wine at a similar speed it won't be long until he's a drunken lout, and then what trouble will happen? Only a look would be enough to set him off against those he hated. She chooses to ignore that however, and instead reaches across the table to accept her gift. 

"Thank you." Sansa says sincerely, squeeze Daemon's hand in gratitude. "You must teach me how to make them for they are so pretty." 

"It looks hard, but in truth the process is simple once-" 

"Let the cups be filled!" The King's shout drowns out Daemon's reply, and Oberyn scoffs as if he hasn't already been drinking the moment he sat down. He takes the flagon off the nearest server and turns to generously fill his and then her cup in turn. "To my wife, the Queen!"

"Margarey!" The room screams, and Sansa looks down at the red wine slopping over the rim of her goblet to stain the new tablecloths. "Margarey! Margaery! _To the Queen!"_

Sansa takes a tiny sip, setting her cup down almost immediately, before rethinking and downing the entire drink as Joffrey basks in the applause. Watching him be rewarded for all his evil deeds made her ill. Perhaps her husband has the right idea; perhaps it is better to not remember this night. There would be other ones, _better_ ones, with the both of them far away from this place and the beast that ruled it. 

King Joffrey holds up one palm, a futile attempt to stop the fawning, before sauntering from his seat and clearing his throat.

"Before we celebrate the beginning of my new life, we must congratulate another." His eyes flit seriously around the room. "You all know Lady Sansa Stark was betrothed to me at one point."

Sansa's stomach lurches with nerves, and she bobs in her seat unsure if she wants to slide off or stand up. 

"But we all make mistakes. Clearly I and Lady Sansa were not meant to be. Today I have married the most beautiful woman in Westeros-"

A smattering of  _awws,_  even as the King saunters away from his bride towards his discarded betrothed.Margarey flushes, nodding her head to the crowd with quickly acquired regal bearing, and Sansa watches him move towards her unblinkingly, heart in her throat. Oberyn tenses automatically beside her, eyes narrowing. 

"And Sansa has recently become a Princess of Dorne by her marriage to Prince Oberyn. I know she is with child, and is returning to Dorne on the morrow, but in honour of a new Stark, I'd like to present you with a special gift." Joffrey's hand wave signals two servers from the shadows, carrying a huge dish.

Joffrey reaches her, staring down with a smile that makes Sansa's skin  _crawl._

"I was going to wait until after the courses, but I thought most people would be drunk by then, and it would be a shame not to remember the look on your face." His laugh is quick and bubbly; a little excited child waiting to open their nameday present. "Because you have such a pretty face. But, I say, start as we mean to go on! This night is going to be... indescribable." 

Her husband snorts beside her. "I must confess Your Grace, a wedding night is usually a disappointment."

"Clearly not for you." Joffrey sneers. 

“I am... honoured Your Grace.” Sansa says quickly, even as the servants set the dish on the table before her, topped with a hood. 

"Open it!" He urges, and at Sansa's hesitation he motions her to hurry. "Go on!" 

She swallows thickly, throat dry, turning to look at Oberyn. He nods once, jaw tight, his hand sneaking to hold hers under the table. Better to do it quick, and get it over with, and pretend it never happened. Joffrey will be satisfied and leave them alone after this, and it is that thought that spurs Sansa's fingers to fold around the wicker handle and lift the cover. 

For a few blissful seconds she doesn't realise what she’s looking at, only that it stinks to the high heavens of rot and decay. She twists her neck sharply to one side, nostrils flaring in disgust. 

“ _Your Grace._ ” Daemon chokes opposite her. He's in the perfect place to view the other side, his eyes wide. “There was no need-”

Acid brews in the back of Sansa's throat as she coughs, turning back paranoid at the growing itch on her. She slaps her hand, horrified at the stringy insect wriggling across her knuckles, scrambling backwards.  _Are those...?_

“Oh there was every need Ser. Sansa needs to know what happens to traitors who rise against me. Everyone needs to.”

Fat maggots glisten as they gorge themselves.They slither and writhe around black bruised flesh, crawling on a mass of thick half disintegrated curls that were as red as Sansa's own once. And his face,  _Robb's face-_

“Take it away!” Queen Cersei says distantly.  _Funny; even she seems alarmed._  “This was only a jape, nothing more. Let us not worry about dead traitors my love, this is _your_ wedding feast.”

Robb's... but how? She shakes her head dizzily, but the vision before her doesn't fade, and the  _smell-_

"- or I'll get Ser Blount to rip the babe from your belly. I've done it before with cats. There was a whole litter of them, I imagine one fat babe will be easier." 

Just like Father, all over again, and he couldn't make her see it, he couldn't make her see him-

“Didn’t you hear me?” Joffrey’s hand clamps onto her hair and shoves her forward. “ _Kiss him!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Write to Lord Frey and tell him. The King commands. I'm going to have it served to Sansa at my wedding feast."  
> "A jest." Cersei smiled. "Joff did not mean it."  
> "Yes I did," Joffrey insisted. "He was a traitor, and I want his stupid head. I'm going to make Sansa kiss it."  
> \- page 143, A Storm of Swords 2: Blood and Gore (UK version) 
> 
> I think some of you already guessed it, but I hope you liked the twist anyway!


	34. Chapter 34

A sob of revulsion tears from her throat and she shakes her head. The king's fingers dig into her scalp as he tries to push her into her brothers rotted lips and Sansa writhes desperately in her seat, hand scrabbling at the table edge to push her chair back. Oberyn hurtles to his feet, Ellaria's strength holding him back finally slackening. She gasps, gagging, but barely has time to respond to her husband before the sound of drawn swords fill the air over the roaring laughter of court, and Joffrey's hands squeeze painfully into the back of her neck, forcing her head down-

She snarls, kicking her legs back, and when the heel of her foot connects with his shin her chin slams down into the tabletop with such force Sansa's vision snaps into blackness.

By the time she blinks back into dazed consciousness mere seconds later, the unrelenting pressure on her skull has vanished and Joffrey is struggling to his feet with one hand clamped to his head. With as much grace and skill as a newborn fawn, he weaves and staggers dizzily, clutching at the table on his way up; the table laden heavy with a head. 

Cups rattle, wine spilling over onto the floor as Daemon tugs the tablecloth off and swoops it over the offending object. _It's a head, my brother's head._

Sansa blinks, staring down at her suddenly sodden dress. She holds the ruined fabric in her hands, the wine eddying in a red pool in her lap. Her new dress, destroyed. And her husband had paid so much for it... Her fingers are snared in her skirts, fumbling and getting caught in the mass of silk, and she only vaguely registers gentle hands fluttering across her face, examining her sore chin and combing through her tender scalp. They whisper muted words of comfort, murmuring firm orders to others she doesn't understand.

Eventually she looks up from the sorry state of her attire, freed numb hands hanging limp and heavy. Joffrey is squinting in her direction. His crown is askew, a tear in the shoulder of his doublet. 

"Get that head removed. Now." 

Sansa lets out a hysterical gasp of laughter at Lord Tywin's command, for she is certain the head has already been sufficiently removed. So well, in fact, she does not even know wherethe  _bones_ lay. She lets out another laugh at that. Like a game, some sort of treasure hunt, and the prize is her brother, rejoined but not repaired.

Lord Tywin's servants obediently approach the table, fingers stretching to lift- 

" _Sansa_." 

He sounds so concerned. Swollen, plum-bruised knuckles graze her cheeks. Far away she can feel the ridges of them, the rounded worn edges. He cradles her face within his hands. 

"Look at me." 

She nods, and admires the way his lips part to whisper words to her. It is a valiant attempt, valiant and _useless_ , for she can still smell the sickly waft of decay and hear the sucked in breaths of the horrified Dornish as the gold clothed servants pass. 

"Take him..." 

Sansa's eyes stray to the wobbling King, wheeling around pointing an accusing finger at nobody in particular. Already his head is beginning to swell, eye painted violently purple. "Take Prince Oberyn to the black cells!" 

_Like Father._

A bolt of fear slides electric down Sansa's spine, and she shakes her head. It bobs from one side to another, swaying back again dizzily, but they cannot,  _will not_ take Oberyn. She won't let them. Not anyone else. Not again. Her fingernails leave white crescent marks in the soft flesh of her hands, as she continues to move her head. Back and forth, to and fro, and perhaps if she does it enough her head will part from her body too. She shudders, pinpricks dancing along her bristled skin as her teeth chatter. 

"No." Sansa says, grinding her teeth to stop the sour acid brewing in her throat from rising. She swallows thickly, compulsively, watching as Joffrey squints in her direction.  

"Of course he won't." Lord Tywin answers for him, and Joffrey rounds on him furious. Face chalk white and cheeks blazing crimson, the king stamps his foot. 

"I am the King, I can do as I like!"

"You will not go to such lengths for a poor attempt at jesting." 

Joffrey stares at him uncomprehendingly. Lord Tywin turns to Sansa, and she gulps, gazing at the gold flecks in his eyes not trusting one word that comes from his mouth. 

"This was all merely a jape gone too far. The head was a simple peasant boy imprisoned for rape." Lord Tywin looks at his grandson with loathing. " _Clearly_  the King overestimated his talent at being a fool." 

A loyal, pale faced Daemon snarls. "I do not think so."

No, Daemon does not think so, and neither does Sansa. She _knew_ her brother, far better than anyone in this hall and city. She had spent eleven years with him, he had helped her walk and taught her to talk and always beat Jon and Theon to rescue her when playing monsters and maidens. She knows that head is Robb. Whatever tale Lord Tywin tells is false.  

"No." Sansa says defiantly, shaking her head. "That was my brother. My _brother-_ "

She can't swallow past the hot lump in her throat. She can smell the death lingering in the air, the scent sinking into her skin. Her  _brother!_

The image of her husband doubles, triples, through the film of water suddenly over her eyes. Cheeks sticky with salt, a violent sob tears from her lips. She can feel the grief, digging deep into her chest as Oberyn struggles to manoeuvres her numb legs out from under the table. She trips as he pulls her to her feet, smoothing her sopping skirts, brushing off a stray maggot.

She shies away from it horrified. It had sat on her all this time, squirming around oblivious in its gluttony. It found a home in her, burrowing into her wine-soaked dress bloated from its meal. Robb, _it was Robb, **it ate Robb-**_

She retches, stomach writhing, spasming as she vomits until she can do nothing but gasp for breath sucking in air, and still the tears fall. Oberyn holds her upright, stopping her from sliding in the mess she had made, and all she ever does is make a mess of everything! 

"Where do you think you're going? I gave you no permission to leave!"

Her husband ignores the king's question entirely. 

Jerking his head at the musicians to play, the notes drown out Lord Tywin's rebuke to the king. Joffrey glares at him sullenly, arms crossed tight, foot stamping in anger before Margaery glides into the scene, twining an arm around his. A fat glossy curl of hair falls over her shoulder as she speaks, and she twines it around one thumb while wrapping Joffrey around her finger. She coaxes him with pretty words, a delicate flushed smile, and Sansa is surrounded by the smiles and mocking laughter of the court as Oberyn hustles her away down the length of the throne room. 

How can she laugh, when she's crying? Large, aching sobs now, stretching her sore chest. Oberyn smooths sweat-slicked strands of hair back from her clammy forehead, and Sansa scrubs at her wet face; she can't seem to make it dry. Her brother, her dear, dead, decaying brother- 

She closes her eyes in grief.  _Is this all a dream? A moonblood nightmare?_

No. Sansa would never dream such monstrous things. 

* * *

In the shelter of their private chambers, she can breathe easier. She drags in large lungfuls of unspoiled air as Oberyn directs her to the nearest chair. The tears have abated for a minute, lost in the overwhelming relief of being somewhere safe. She cannot be harmed here in their home. Oberyn pushes a goblet of lemon water towards her and she takes it with trembling hands, drinking eagerly to swill the sour taste of vomit from her mouth. 

"It was him." She says after she's swallowed. "It was Robb. I know it."

She stares at her husband. He looks back, entirely convinced. 

"I  _know_ it." 

Oberyn nods, and Sansa breaks.

She howls her grief, and Oberyn hurries to take the rapidly tilting goblet from Sansa's grasp before it spills over her dress. It is already soaked; what did it matter? Nothing mattered, not now. Robb is dead. _They're all dead._

"They ate him!" She keens in horror, shrieking and sobbing into his shoulder, and perhaps she makes no sense to him, perhaps she has lost her wits like they say her mother did, but Oberyn holds her close all the same.

They are a tangle of bones and body parts melded together, unbreakable in their grief. Make no mistake, Oberyn mourns too. She knows, as sure as his heart beating, that he is thinking of his own sister brutally defiled by Lannisters, her babies reduced to child corpses, their blood soaking into the haunted floors of the Red Keep.  

"They killed him!" She heaves for breath, choking and wheezing. She inhales, almost choking on tears and phlegm, "They cut his head off Oberyn, and - and-"

She clutches at her chest frantically, clawing at her pretty, ruined dress. Her raw throat burns, her eyes flooded, and they hug until her hysteria abates. He catches some of her tears before they fall, and others he gently brushes away, and after when her cheeks are raw and puffy, he takes care to press his handkerchief into her hand. She crunches the silk fabric into her palm, where the desperate marks of her nails are slowly fading, and watches silent and swollen-eyed as her husband stands and crosses the room. Dainty hands unlock a small chest, trailing over vials and bottles as he debates which best to use. 

"Aha," He murmurs softly to himself. "this should do it."

He pulls the cork stopper out of a delicate glass bottle, the liquid inside amber streaked with gold. Sansa hiccups wetly, watching two drops swirl into a goblet, swallowed by the wine. 

"Drink this." He passes it to her. "It will help keep you calm." 

She leans forward to take it, obediently sipping. It is warm, honey sweet and instantly comforting, and it is no effort to drain the goblet. She inhales shakily, scrubbing at her face. Still wet.

"Joffrey will be mad, won't he?" 

Her husband pauses when taking the goblet back from her. His eyes meet hers, earnest. 

"You are far more important than the violent acts of a tyrant." He murmurs. 

She sniffs thickly, opening her mouth. He knows her well, too well, for he stops her with a squeeze of her hand.

"You cannot be sorry for doing nothing wrong."

"I made such a mess." Her voice is waveringly thin, trembling on the few droplets of hysteria still swimming in her bloodstream. "I embarrassed myself, I embarrassed _you,_  in front of  _everyone-"_

"They did not care." The space between them is so slight, yet he manages to move further into her. His hand still clutches hers, and now he takes the other, dark eyes honest as he watches her intently.  _Of course they did not care, for they laughed with glee at my misery._ "They have never cared for you. Why do you care for them?" 

She cannot answer that, but he knows her well enough to reply. His voice is low and impossibly soft, and she finds herself hypnotised by the truth coating his words.

"You only care for the King's approval, in truth. And the King..." She watches the fury simmer hot in Oberyn's eyes. "He's lucky he's still breathing." 

"I'm glad you didn't hurt him. You only protected me." She wriggles her fingers to lace them through his; Oberyn smiles. "He can't punish you for that... can he?" 

"Of course he can't."

She nods, reassured, feeling the heat of his potion slowly spreading a calm heaviness throughout her body. It settles in under her skin, rolling down her veins. She sighs languidly, the tips of her toes tingling as she licks her lips. They taste of honey. Honey and heartbreak. Her husband's jaw clenches.

"These Lannisters have a habit of mocking the dead."

Rhaenys and Aegon's blood stained bodies presented to King Robert, Father with his head on a spike for all to see, Robb... 

She squeezes his hand tight, and he clutches back hard enough to bruise. She didn't mind; she would bruise for him, and gladly. Oberyn and her are identical, his jagged edges slotting into her shattered soul, and they stitch together love to keep themselves from falling apart. Ellaria, a thick red thread, and Arianne, and all eight of his daughters, and Doran, Quentyn, Trystane, they knit them all into their hearts.  _They're not all dead, they're not all dead, they're not all dead._

She still has a family. A family by marriage, not blood, but no less important to her. A chosen family, when Prince Oberyn Martell heard of the redhead girl held captive and commanded her arrival to Dorne, to safety, to  _love._

She has to forget this night, this wedding, the wasted years spent sucked into the seductive destruction of court ruled by a monster. She has to remember Robb as she knew him, alive and well. Vibrantly  _alive,_ thrumming with energy as he played at sword fights with Jon. The sound of his laughter, the teasing she pretended to hate... she must cling to the good, and never think of the bad. She cannot remember Father as a traitor beheaded, and nor can she with her big brother.  _They are more than what the Lannisters try to make them._

 She says as much to Oberyn, murmuring it into the silence of the room. He nods, just as a sharp rap sounds on the door and disrupts their finally achieved peace. Oberyn reluctantly tears himself away from her, ambling to the door and throwing it open unamused. 

"Prince Oberyn." Ser Meryn Trant says coolly. His eyes flicker from Oberyn to Sansa, and back. She wonders idly what he is thinking, what all the guests left behind are wondering. Surely Ellaria is worrying. "Now you have sufficiently recovered from the jape, the King orders you and your wife's presence back in the throne room." 

His tone is derisive, deliberately trying to provoke the pair. They all know it was no jape. Oberyn huffs irritated, hand digging into the door, though his gaze is soft when he turns to Sansa.  

"Do you think you can return for another hour? We will make our politest goodbyes as soon as possible." 

Sansa nods; she knows Oberyn harbours no desire to return either. Only her concern over Ellaria forces Sansa to reluctantly rise. As she does, she notices Oberyn's clothes for the first time and frowns. 

"We're all wet." 

Oberyn looks down at himself, as if he hadn't noticed the dark stains on his shoulder, the damp patch on his side from her dripping dress now soaking the upholstery she had slumped on. 

"The King has commanded your presence immediately. You have tarried here too long." Ser Meryn scowls. "You were not allowed to leave the throne room in truth, but Queen Margaery is generous. You should have used the time wisely."

"Ah." Oberyn rolls his shoulders back, not upset in the slightest. "Perhaps I'll start a new trend. Princes are very influential you know." He smiles, and the familiar sight of his crinkled eyes and curled lips makes Sansa's empty stomach squeeze with a type of nausea she was unused to. 

She takes his offered hand under the eye of Ser Meryn with a deep, bracing breath.

She does not know what potion her husband gave her, only that it continues to ply her with a pleasant numbing sensation as they re-enter the throne room, all eyes upon them. Her vomit has been cleaned, the tablecloth and wine replaced, and it is as if the last half hour was only a strange hallucination. The atmosphere is charged, the burning candles blinding, and Sansa slips back into her assigned place without a word. Her serenity will not last forever, so she takes advantage of it as disgruntled Dornish air their grievances in loud voices and Ellaria fusses. She fixes Sansa's hair, dark eyes shining with worry. 

"You still look pale. Too pale." She decides, filling her cup with more wine and pressing it into Sansa's mallable hand. It is pointless to deny her. 

Oberyn, humble in his concern, surprises all when he goes to the high table and stiffly apologises. She makes sure he knows her appreciation when he sits back down beside her afterwards, hand slipping into his. He wraps one arm around her shoulder and keeps her close, eyes narrowed as he watches the bruised king.

Joffrey is deep into his cups, staggering and slurring as he giggles. He stands before the court, gleaming gold, and with cruel mocking eyes drives the room into gales of laughter. Slamming one hand down on the high table, the king cackles with glee and praises Sansa's entertainment. 

"I have never been more satisfied." He sniggers, wine dripping from his nose and leaking from the sides of his mouth. She always thought his lips were worm-like, but now she decides maggots are more apt. 

A large ugly lump decorates his black and blue forehead, and he can't look at her properly through one swollen eye.  _My husband did that, for me._ She cannot hate him for it, nor even fear the retaliation - her husband has taken care of that too, with his exaggerated apology. She is ever so light, drifting high about the heads of court as they eat and drink and make merry. She does not wail nor sob, sigh nor worry. She is without pain, blind and deaf to the Dornish hatred and Lannister festivities.  

She does not stir, even when Joffrey mocks her family anew with jousting dwarfs garbed in the Stark sigil. 

Even when Joffrey cuts the pigeon pie with her families reforged sword.

Even when Joffrey chokes and drops dead at his own wedding feast.


End file.
